


Tell me we both matter

by mushiemadarame



Series: Tell me we both matter [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Fix-It, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, kind of but not exactly, no beta we die like men, some of it but not too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 95,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25243033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushiemadarame/pseuds/mushiemadarame
Summary: Richie’s stomach lurches. "What's the catch?" he demands, but he knows that whatever the cost will be, he'll give it.Instead of answering, Maturin says, "What will you give?"orWhen Eddie dies, Richie's universe tilts on its axis and starts crumbling before he even has the time to realise how much he's lost. So when he gets offered a second chance, he takes it with both hands and doesn't think of the consequences, giving up everything he has and feeling like he still got a great deal out of it.But Richie doesn't know that he's not the only one losing something and when he finally understands it, he thinks he won't get to try again, but the universe has other ideas for him.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough & Eddie Kaspbrak, Bill Denbrough & Richie Tozier, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak & Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon & Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris, mostly hinted - Relationship
Series: Tell me we both matter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828720
Comments: 42
Kudos: 127





	1. Take One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I started writing this fic last October and I feel like actual years were taken off my lifespan for it to be finished so I really hope it'll be worth your time and that you'll enjoy it.
> 
> I tried to keep the tags vague so as not to spoil some of the story, but I might be adding more detailed ones after the last chapter has been posted and a bit of time has passed since publication. 
> 
> Small disclaimer before we dive in: the extent of my knowledge of the IT universe starts and ends with the Muschietti adaptations, aside from some book details that I picked up on various social media since watching the movies and getting sucked into the fandom, and general pop culture that gets more or less passed around from generation to generation ever since the first adaptation came out. All this to say that if anybody finds any discrepancies, the reason has been explained. 
> 
> In the same vein, I also know very little about Maturin, but considering that I own a pet turtle, I think I'm pretty much allowed to do whatever the heck I want. Just kidding… unless? 🤔
> 
> Anyway, to Stephen King I would like to say: thank you for creating these characters and thank you for putting them in this story in a way that made me write almost 100k words about them, but you don't know sh*t. 
> 
> In conclusion, my sandbox, my rules.
> 
> P. S.: this story has already been written in its entirety so if you're hesitant to read it because you're afraid it might end up unfinished, fret not! I'm spacing out the chapters for posting but they are finished and ready to go. Also, it gets progressively longer with every chapter, I apologise.
> 
> Title from Kate Bush's _Running Up That Hill_.

As Richie, wet and shellshocked, comes to his senses in the water of the quarry, he can feel his body weighed down by exhaustion. He watches the drops of blood on his glasses dissolve into the water as he loosens his grip and they sink, and thinks of sinking too, letting himself plunge under the surface and floating inches from the bottom with no breath in his lungs and no memory in his mind.

His throat burns, his screams for Eddie’s body - nothing else is left there anymore - a phantom pain lodged behind his tongue. He doesn’t notice he’s crying until a wretched sob breaks out of his chest and when his friends, the ones who remain, wrap and drape themselves around him, all he can feel is the missing weight of Eddie’s arms. The water is cold.

When they step back into the Townhouse, Richie makes a beeline for the stairs without a word. He can feel the pressure of everyone’s gazes on him but as he turns his back to them, their silent worry is the last thought on his mind. He passes the room where Eddie had been with his eyes planted firmly on the shitty carpeting of the stairs, teeth gritted so hard the back of his jaw hurts from it, and keeps his breath in like the door is just waiting for him to make the wrong noise to swallow him whole.

His hands won’t stop shaking as he struggles to insert the key into the lock to his own room, and the frustration starts to mount from the same place where he’s trying to keep back tears. When his vision blurs with the wetness of it, he hisses out a croaked “Fuck” and kicks the door. That seems to do the trick because the key finally goes in and the lock turns. He slips in quickly, barely pulling the key out of the lock, and leans against the door as the tears spill from his eyes.

Richie bends in on himself, the key slips from the hand he presses to the door to keep himself standing, while he covers his face with his other arm and pushes his glasses out of the way.

Soon enough his crying turns into sobbing and his knees give out, leaving him to sit on the floor. He keeps crying and shaking, he doesn’t know for how long, but enough that his sobs turn into a dry and scratchy wail and then gradually stop altogether, emptiness taking their place.

He sits up, pulling the glasses off his head and into the loose circle of his hands, and stays there leaning with his arms over his knees for a few minutes. When he starts shivering from the cold wetness of his still soaked t-shirt he finally stands up and makes for the bathroom as his brain supplies the traitorous image of a disgusted Eddie, somewhere between his childhood appearance and the new but familiar older face that Richie had barely started getting to know, berating him for his fucked-up priorities. Richie can almost imagine him taking one look at him and going “You look disgusting. Go shower, you’ll have time to cry later.”

The smile that thought brings is strained and painful on his lips, and only lasts a few seconds. Richie shakes it away and tries to focus on the task at hand, already feeling the prickle of tears start up again at the memory of Eddie.

He undresses with single-minded concentration, unhooking each button on his shirt with painstaking precision, not letting himself take his eyes off his own fingers.

When he finally gets out of his trousers and undershirt, he turns on the water of the shower as hot as it will go and gets in without waiting for it to warm up.

He stands motionless watching the tiles of the tiny shower, the water becomes scalding and the minutes pass without him noticing. He looks at his hands, they are cleaner than they were before bathing in the quarry but his nails are still stained black and red with Eddie’s bl-

He grits his teeth and shakes his head, and starts rubbing his fingertips against each other furiously, trying to get the filth out from beneath his fingernails. He scratches at his palms insistently, again and again until there is no need to anymore, and when the scores on his palms sting under the current of the water he stops, almost surprised by the red marks on the skin as if he’s not sure how he got them.

He hides his face in his hands and cries again, his whole body shaking well after his tears stop.

He steps out of the shower when the cooling water on his skin makes him shiver and grabs the first towel he can reach. He wraps it around himself and slicks back his soaked hair, his eyes fall to the mirror. Even if he was wearing his glasses, he wouldn’t be able to see the puffiness of his eyes and the redness of his bitten lips in the fogged up glass.

He turns and goes back to the main room, making quick work of grabbing and wearing clean clothes over his barely-dry skin. 

As he towels at his curls, Richie can hear the muffled voices of the other Losers coming from outside. He sighs, unsure of what to do. He feels at the same time as he will never again be ready to be around someone else, and an unstoppable yearning for enough company and distraction that he won’t have to think about Eddie’s eyes losing their light. He doubts he will be able to get rid of that particular memory in the near future, but makes his way out of the room anyway, dropping the wet towel to the floor carelessly and shutting the door behind him with a muted click.

He makes sure to keep his eyes toward the lobby as he passes Eddie’s room.

When Richie steps on the lower floor, he doesn’t catch what Bill is saying, but hears the words just as he finishes “... who else should t-take them.”

“That would be completely unfair,” Beverly scoffs in an irritated tone, “We can’t ask that of Richie. I can’t believe you would even sug-” the words die on her tongue when she notices him at the entrance to the small bar and she closes her mouth abruptly. She’s standing behind the counter, a bottle of whiskey - or maybe scotch, Richie can’t see the label - in one hand and an empty glass in the other.

Ben, Mike, and Bill are sitting on the stools on the other side of the bar facing her with their backs to Richie. Mike looks into his glass with a deep frown, while Ben’s eyes keep darting from Beverly to Bill who is almost out of his seat and leaning heavily on the bar to look straight at Beverly as if getting closer will help get his point across.

When Beverly stops talking, they turn around to follow her eyes to Richie and see him standing there. He pushes his hands into his pockets, uncomfortable under the sudden attention, and finally says, “Ask me what?”

Bill winces and turns away, grabbing his half-empty glass from the counter and downing the rest of his drink without a word. Mike sighs and closes his eyes before bringing a hand to scrub at his forehead. Ben looks at him briefly, then back to Beverly, waiting for her to say something.

No one answers and Richie almost asks again, but before he can, Beverly speaks.

“We were talking about Eddie’s bags,” she says, looking at him uncertainly, “we probably have to send them back to New York, or maybe one of us should take them.” _Bill thinks it should be you_ , she doesn’t say.

Richie’s eyes start watering again and he tries to swallow down the knot in his throat before the tears can fall. He adjusts his glasses higher on his nose, taking advantage of the movement to hide his eyes from Beverly’s gaze. He clears his throat and says, “I’ll take them.” His voice only trembles slightly.

“You d-don’t have to-,” “Richie, there’s no need-,” Bill and Bev both start at the same time.

“No,” Richie interrupts them, “I want to,” he insists and finds, surprisingly, that he means it.

“Richie,” Ben speaks and Richie looks at him, “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, “Someone else can take them,” he pauses and tries to read the expression on Richie’s face. Richie isn’t sure what Mike sees there, but he continues, “At least for the time being.”

Richie attempts a smile, but even he knows it isn’t a convincing show, “No, no, guys, it’s fine,” he repeats again, finally leaving the doorway and making his way closer to the bar, “I’ll take them. I’ll take Ed-” he stumbles over the word and thinks better of it, “The suitcases.”

The others look at him with concern, still not entirely convinced. Richie pretends not to notice their expressions and sits on the empty stool next to Bill’s. “Is there any alcohol left for me?” he asks, gesturing to the row of bottles behind Beverly and obviously trying to make them drop the issue.

“Sure, Rich,” she answers with a gentle, knowing voice and a sad smile and turns around, grabbing a bottle full of clear liquor. She pours Richie a glass without asking if it’s the drink he wants but it doesn’t matter, Richie doesn’t much care what he drinks as long as he does.

The others seem to relax back into their seats again and Bill refills his own glass from the bottle that Beverly left on the counter when Richie walked in.

Beverly passes him the glass and pours herself a drink too. Richie thanks her with a nod and lifts his glass to her slightly before pushing the contents back in one swallow. He regrets it almost immediately when he realises that it leaves him to look into an empty glass with nothing to do. Bill seems to notice too and wordlessly refills it for him with the same liquor he and Beverly are drinking.

He takes small, slow sips and savours the burn it gives him going down his throat, letting it take the place of the bitterness in his mouth.

Silence settles over the room for a few long moments, Richie thinks of breaking it more than once. He can’t take the deafening quality of it, and it has always been his role to keep them noisy when they wouldn’t be. But he doesn’t know what to say that won’t sound forced, and it’s been almost thirty years now, he can’t be sure that they’re the same Losers they used to be.

He can’t examine the thought too closely - not that he particularly wants to - because Mike breaks the silence.

“When are you guys due back?” he asks, looking around at the others.

Richie winces, puts the glass to his lips to hide it. He almost wants to change the subject, say some dumb line about waiting at least a week before expecting someone to leave the place where they lost the love of their life they had forgotten all about, but thinks better of it. He doesn’t want to stay in Derry any longer than he has to anyway, and he has no idea whether any of the Losers ever suspected that something might not be as platonic as it seemed between him and Eddie but either way, he’d never said a word about it and now it’s just too late and useless to come clean, what would even be the point?

Ben interrupts his thoughts when he takes the lead to answer. “We don’t have a schedule but Beverly and me, we, huh...” he pauses and looks at her shily, she returns the look with a soft, encouraging smile. Richie’s chest tightens, half happiness, half envy, but he doesn’t dwell on it because Ben continues, his voice gone even softer “...we’re going back together.”

Mike and Bill don’t seem surprised, they grin, congratulating them as they do. Beverly looks to Richie as if making sure that he, too, approves of the relationship, and Richie forces out a genuine smile for her. He could never find any fault in either of them trying their hand at happiness, no family that matters would. They deserve to find that happiness in each other, especially after all Beverly’s been through. The memory of the bruises on her wrists comes back to Richie and, as if reading his mind, Bill’s smile drops a little and he speaks through the pinch between his brows like he’d sooner confess his deepest secrets than say what he’s about to.

“What about your husband?” he asks, then flinches apologetically at the wording and stutters to explain, “I-I mean, not that you sh-sh-should go back to him but that doesn’t seem like a problem that solves itself.”

“Bill,” Richie starts, “way to shit all over a lovely moment.”

“I’m sorry!” Bill says defensively, “I didn’t mean to. I’m r-r-really happy for you guys-”

“It’s fine, Bill,” Beverly interrupts him with a slight sigh, but smiles at his last sentence, “Ben is putting me in contact with a lawyer friend of his and with some luck, the _‘problem’_ ,” she emphasizes the word, echoing Bill, “will be dealt with as soon as possible.” She looks at Ben, who beams under her gaze and extends his hand to take the one she’s leaning on the bartop in a reassuring squeeze.

Richie makes himself look away from the gesture, his chest throbs. He moves his attention back to Bill, who hasn’t answered Mike’s question yet. “What about you, Big Bill? When are you leaving?” he asks, and the moment is broken.

Bill returns Richie’s gaze and says, “I can do my writing from here for a wh-while.” He scans the room for the others’ eyes and Richie realises that they’ve probably talked about whatever Bill’s about to say while he was showering. “I was thinking, since we’re b-b-both in L.A., we could go back at the same time,” he explains.

Richie looks at him dumbly, he’s suddenly thrust back into his 13-year-old body and being reassured by his Fearless Leader over a matter he thought he was keeping in check. He realises with a start that he doesn’t remember the last time he’s been so cared for, but he’s pretty sure it was well before he left Derry for the forgettable rest of his life ‘til now. He thinks of how unfair it is that he had to forget the parts that mattered and live with remembering the ones that didn’t. If he didn’t already have reason enough to hate that goddamned clown, he definitely would now.

When Bill speaks again, Richie notices that his lack of an answer has left the room silent and his friends are looking at him with concern again. “We can go whenever we want,” Bill reassures him.

“Thanks, Billiam. But I’m not exactly dying to stay in Derry for much longer.” Richie tries for levity, but his heart’s not in it, “No offence, Mike.”

Mike chuckles. “Don’t worry, Rich, I’m not staying much longer either.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

“Where are you gonna go?” Beverly’s the first to ask. They all look at Mike expectantly.

“I still wanna go and see Florida,” Mike says, “But I might take the long way there and enjoy some of the scenery first.”

Ben beams at him and claps a hand on his shoulder, “We’d love to have you over if you’re ever in Upstate New York. Right, Bev?” 

She nods excitedly. “Of course!”

“And that goes for L.A. too, obviously,” adds Bill with a grin.

Mike smiles a huge smile and looks at his lap almost timidly. Richie can tell he’s preening under all the affection and remembers abruptly that Mike had to be in Derry alone for almost thirty years so they could go off and try their hand at something better. He feels guilty that Mike’s sacrifice was for nothing and angry at the stagnating trap that Derry must have felt like for him without the support of the only family they ever knew. Then, he just feels sad, because there’s nothing he can do to make the past right for any of them. “I bet mine is bigger than Bill's. I mean my house,” he tries anyway and winks at Mike, “Just in case you do end up in L.A.”

That gets him several laughs and a “We’ll see about that” from Bill. Richie looks up for Eddie’s reaction before he can stop himself and remember there won’t be one. His smile falters, but he hides it behind his glass.

Bill takes another drink too, then asks Mike, “When are you gonna start the g-grand tour?”

“Shouldn’t take me more than a couple of days to get everything ready to go,” Mike answers, fiddling with his now empty glass distractedly, “I don’t have all that much to pack anyway.” 

Bill hums in understanding.

“We could try and leave on the same day.” It’s Ben who makes the suggestion. “If you guys are flying-” he looks to Bill and Richie, “-you’ll have to go from Bangor, too.”

Richie nods while Bill answers, “Yeah, w-we can do that.”

Mike clears his throat and they turn to look at him. He’s looking between Beverly and Ben and readying himself to say something. “Would you mind if I took you up on your offer a little earlier than you thought?”

“What do you mean?” asks Beverly.

“I could catch a plane, too,” Mike explains, “Go to New York with you guys and take a look around while I’m there.” Ben is about to answer when he continues, “I know you two lovebirds might prefer the time alone, but I promise I won’t be in your hair too much.”

Ben blushes and Beverly laughs. 

“Of course, Mike,” Ben says through the embarrassment, reaching to give Mike a gentle pat on the back, “You can stay with us for as long as you want.”

Richie looks between his friends then back down at his glass, and takes another swig. He thinks of the empty house he’ll have to go back to, and the responsibilities waiting for him. He’d just disappeared after the horrifying stand-up fiasco in Chicago and hasn’t turned his phone on at all since getting to Derry. He can’t even begin to imagine the kind of trouble he’s gonna get back to when he goes home to L.A. For now, he tries to wash away the thought with another mouthful of liquor.

He’s not sure how to imagine their future either. He expects they’ll all make plans to see each other soon, make sure none of them has the chance to forget this time around. He tries to picture sitting down with Bill in one of his favourite bars in L.A., maybe meeting Ben and Beverly in their love nest for the holidays with Mike tanned even darker than he is joining them after some fantastical adventure in South America. But Eddie won’t be there, and Stan won't either. He feels a painful longing for the people he didn’t have the time to find out they’d grown into, the telling prickle of rage that comes with the unfairness of Stan’s too-short life, the righteous fury that envelops him when he remembers he won’t ever get to share another joke with Eddie.

The liquor goes even sourer in his mouth, and he has trouble pushing it down.

While he was lost in thought, the others moved on to a different topic. Richie isn’t sure what they’re talking about, and they don’t seem to have noticed that he hasn’t been listening. Suddenly, Beverly claps her hands and says, “Who’s hungry?”

When they’d entered the house on Neibolt it had been night, and when they left it the sun had been high in the early afternoon sky. If asked, Richie wouldn’t have been able to explain how the time passed while they were underground, so many things happened so fast that he would have bet all the time in the world and no time at all had passed at the same time.

Now, sitting at the bar and free to breathe, he can feel the weight of the day weigh down on him.

Mike, Ben and Bill all make noises of agreement. Beverly says, “There must be a delivery menu somewhere,” and bends down to rummage into the of drawers on the side of the bar. She pulls out some worn-out leaflets with a triumphant “A-ha!” and fans them out so they can take a look too. 

One of them is from Jade of The Orient, Richie feels sick.

“No Chinese,” Ben pleads, “Anything else but that.”

“I wouldn’t mind Indian food,” says Bill, pointing to the flier in the middle.

Beverly lets the other menus fall to the lower compartment of the bar and opens the one from the Indian place, all the while diving into her pocket for her phone. “Suggestion accepted, Indian it is.” She leaves the paper on the tabletop in front of them and opens something up on the device, “Tell me what you guys want and I’ll write it down.”

Mike grabs the menu first and Ben leans in to look at it over his shoulder. They pick a couple of dishes and pass the flier to Bill who holds it between himself and Richie.

Richie takes a quick look at the tiny font on the menu and what feels like thousands of lines of food and picks one without even reading what it is. His stomach still feels like it’s full of lead and he doesn’t know if he'll manage to eat any of it anyway. He leans back on his stool, and when he goes to down the rest of his drink, he notices there’s none left, so he reaches for the bottle that’s still on the bartop to pour himself more at the same time Bill tells Beverly what he wants and passes her the menu. She takes it and leaves the room to call the restaurant.

As he pours the brown-ish liquid in his glass, he can feel the others’ eyes on him. When he looks up, they’re looking away again.

After Beverly gets back from the phone call, the food doesn’t take long to arrive. They grab some of the bottles from the bar, Richie carrying most of them, and move to the small sitting room at the foot of the stairs to eat. They keep a steady stream of chit-chat while they do. Richie mostly moves food around the plastic container his dish has arrived in and only contributes a few words, the couple of bites he does take he can’t taste.

When the food is finished and the empty boxes are pushed to the side, the conversation lulls into a quiet murmur. Richie is tipsy, his lethargic body draped over the arm of an old, stuffed chair. He looks around and sees Beverly and Ben sitting pressed from shoulders to hips on the smallest of the couches, whispering something Richie can’t hear and smiling softly into each other’s eyes. He quickly turns away to Bill, who’s leaning heavily with his hands on his knees and gesturing wildly at Mike who, on his part, is sprawled against the pillowy back of his seat with his hands on his full belly and chuckling a low but deep laugh.

Richie sighs to himself and moves his eyes to his hands in his lap. He clenches and unclenches the fingers a couple of times, trying with little success to pump out the rolling ache that has lodged itself in his chest.

He thinks of going to bed, of sleeping for as long as he can before he has to face reality again. He wonders for a second if he’ll have nightmares, if he’ll have to relive Eddie’s dying breaths every night for the rest of his life. People always say loss gets easier with time, but right at that moment, Richie can’t begin to believe it.

He decides to risk it anyway and stands up abruptly, bumping his knee into the coffee table in front of him and making it rattle noisily, and the two conversations going on around him stop.

He looks at his friends and tries to muster up a convincing smile. He brushes back his hair from his forehead with a nervous gesture and says, “I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

“Sleep well, man,” Mike smiles at him dazedly, and the others echo him. Beverly is looking at him with warm yet concerned eyes and she seems like she wants to say something but before she can, Richie turns and takes the stairs to his room.

He lets the door close behind him and doesn’t bother with changing into something else, just discards his jeans and shirt on the floor before sitting down on the edge of the bed. He fishes his phone out of the pocket of his abandoned pants and puts it on the bedside table followed by his glasses, and finally lies down with a sigh.

He lies there looking at the dark ceiling and tries to shut off his brain. Every time he blinks, the walls of the cave of It’s lair close in around him, the memory of the putrid smell of blood and mud permeates his nostrils as if he never left. The more he thinks about it, the more frantic his breathing gets, the beat of his heart rings a deafening thump in his ears and he realizes with an unwarranted start that he’s in the middle of a panic attack.

He should only be surprised it hasn’t happened earlier.

Richie pushes the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, his fingers pulling at his curled fringe painfully, and tries to slow down his breath through gritted teeth. He can feel the muscles of his legs and abdomen lock in tension and grips even harder at his hair, trying to use the sensation as an anchor to reality. He chokes on a breath and starts crying, so overwhelmed by the feeling of his body seizing that he forgets just for a moment what it is he’s panicking about.

 _One, two, three,_ he tries to count his breaths like his manager taught him back when he’d just started performing for bigger crowds and the anxiety had been enough to make him falter before stepping on stage. He gets to thirty before calming down enough to ease the hold on his hair and rubs at his eyes with his knuckles almost hard enough to hurt. When his muscles finally unlock, he curls into the mattress and keeps sobbing, through rage and frustration. He can’t do this, he can’t keep crying and suffocating like this, he’s tired and angry at himself for being so unable to get a grip on his own emotions. He hadn’t seen or remembered Eddie for thirty years before meeting him again and he’d been just fine, he tells himself. But he knows he’s lying, he knows very well of the loneliness after a show, of the absence of people he wanted to celebrate with, he just thought it was how things had to be back then, he didn’t know he was missing something he’d had.

He keeps shaking long after his tears stop and when he falls asleep, he dreams of emptiness.

He comes to in the same position he passed out. Around him, everything is white as far as his eyes can see. They have trouble adjusting to the spacelessness of it, there's nothing around him to give the hint of an edge, as if the room extends well beyond what should be conceivable. If he squints he can almost spot a small black stain in the distance. Richie can't tell how far it is, but he imagines he would have to walk for days before he would reach what seems to be a round, dark opening.

He lifts his hands to his face to make sure that he still has a physical form and sees that he’s wearing the same clothes he was in when they’d entered the house on Neibolt. He can feel the solidity of his body leaning on a surface, but he's not projecting a shadow on the ground and he can't feel the weight of his own limbs while at the same time being over-conscious of the muscles in them straining to move. He sits up and looks around and realises with horror that lying behind him is Eddie, unconscious.

Richie scrambles for him, kneels above his senseless body searching for signs of life. There’s no mistaking Eddie’s chest going up and down with the impression of breathing, but when Richie puts an ear to his mouth, no air hits it and no noise comes out. His eyes are closed and his expression is slack. If Richie didn’t know better, he would almost believe Eddie’s just sleeping.

Richie examines him closely, picks up one of Eddie’s wrists and presses his fingers to the inside of it to check for a heartbeat. He can't feel one but his body is warm, he huffs in frustration and wracks his brain for what to do. He notices that Eddie is wearing the same clothes as when he died, too. His shirt is ripped where It’s claw impaled him, but the fabric is clean and there’s no sign of a wound underneath it. The bandage on his cheek is clean too, and Richie suspects that if he were to pull it off, the skin under it would be intact. Before he can stop himself, he lays a hand over it and brushes his thumb against Eddie's uncovered cheekbone. He grits his teeth against the tightness in his throat, and finds that he can't cry.

Everything in his brain is screaming that this is just a dream, just his mind giving him a chance to see Eddie again without death staining his memory of him, but he can’t stop himself from wanting to make things right. Eddie’s breathing, Richie just knows he is, but the functions of his body seem suspended in this formless space.

Richie grips one of Eddie’s arms and looks around again trying to find anything or anybody willing to help, even though he already knows they’re the only ones there.

He makes himself let go and stands up. If he concentrates hard enough, he can see the whiteness ripple above him and a languid swooshing sound surrounds him on all sides. He turns in time with it, attempting to place its source, but as hard as he tries, he can’t put his finger on what’s causing it.

When he looks back down at Eddie, there’s nothing there. He flings himself at the empty space where his body should be but before he makes contact with the ground, the whiteness dissolves around him and he wakes up to the smoke-stained ceiling of his hotel room with a choked “No” on his lips.

He's panting so hard he shakes with the force of it. Even though the covers got knotted around his ankles while he was sleeping leaving him uncovered, he can feel sweat pooling in the dip of his lower back.

He brings a hand to his heart and tries to slow down his breathing, presses his palm firmly into the skin beneath his t-shirt and gulps in air beat after beat of his heart. When he finally manages to get his breathing under control, he curses and rubs at his eyes with a wince, then scrambles for his glasses and turns on the light on the bedside table. He grabs his phone to look at the time and realises he’s slept through the night and it’s already morning.

If he strains, he can hear the others move in the small sitting room at the foot of the stairs. He sighs, and resolves to get up and take a shower before joining them downstairs.

Downstairs, Ben is cleaning up the mess they left the night before while Bill and Beverly are poring over something on her phone. When they see him, Bill tells him they’re gonna book their flights later in the day and that Mike is joining them for breakfast soon.

That’s how their day goes. As agreed, Mike meets them at the Townhouse and they all leave together for breakfast at a nearby diner. After that, they separate. Mike has to pack for the flight the next day, while the rest of them still have their bags more or less full. Bill lets them know that he wants to check in on the family of the boy who died at the carnival. Richie isn’t sure how that is going to go down exactly, but he can’t really say anything to dissuade Bill and he doesn’t know if he should anyway. The others’ worried faces when Bill tells them about it tell him that he’s not the only one thinking it, but none of them says anything either so he lets it go.

Beverly and Ben go back to the Townhouse, offer Richie the company if he’s headed there too, but Richie suspects that Beverly’s been waiting for a chance to have a serious talk, and he can’t face that yet. Besides, he already has other plans.

He goes to the kissing bridge.

He carves their initials deeper into the wood with thorough reverence, brushes the letters with his fingertips and tries to commit them to memory. He almost laughs at the thought that even while he was away and Eddie forgotten, there was something tethering his feelings to reality even though their life in Derry hadn’t seemed all that real until just a few days before, that they lay dormant but never went away and not even twenty-seven years could erase them. It might have tried, but not even a horror clown from outer space could win against the memory of Richie’s love. The thought feels juvenile. The smile on Richie’s lips is bitter and his tears are salty on his cheeks. He sits with his back against the posts of the bridge for a long time, letting the new-found memories of their shared childhood wash over him.

He goes back to the Townhouse just as the sun is going down. The sky behind the roof of the hotel is streaked in purples and oranges and a hot September wind has settled over the streets of Derry, lifting dust and pebbles off the neglected roads and shaking the blooming trees gently.

The others are already inside. Beverly is pacing the length of the corridor above the sitting room and speaking quietly but urgently into her phone. Mike is curved over Bill on the couch with his arm around his shoulders, talking softly and stroking his back as Bill leans his elbows on his knees, half covering his frowning face. Richie guesses that mustn’t have gone very well. Ben is on the other side of him with a hand on his shoulder too, but keeps looking distractedly up at Beverly.

“Everything okay?” Richie asks, but he can already read the answer all over Bill’s face and asks mostly to let them know he’s there.

Bill squares his shoulders and sniffs. He sits up and Richie can see that the corners of his eyes are red. “Yeah,” he says, “It’s fine, I’m g-good,” he insists and rolls his shoulders again, trying to shake off what happened. Richie understands the feeling of not wanting to talk about it, so he doesn’t press. Mike sits back too and lets his hand fall from Bill’s shoulders.

When Beverly finishes her phone call, they finally book their flights and manage to find them at more or less the same time. Beverly, Ben, and Mike are flying out to New York together, Richie and Bill are too, although theirs is going to be a much longer flight to L.A. Richie’s stomach roils at the thought of going back to every day and the uncertainty of what he’s going to find there, but he tries to stamp the feeling down. He knew from the start that he would have to go back eventually, he’d just hoped it would be with six more contacts in his phone instead of four, but there’s nothing he can do about that now and when he could he didn’t know he should have anyway. Somehow, that doesn’t really ease the sense of loss that hasn’t left him once since Neibolt.

When that is settled, they order in again and finish a couple more bottles from the bar. Richie drinks most of it.

That night, when he falls asleep, there’s no forgiving ripples of white, just Eddie’s lifeless body in his arms as the walls cave in around them.

Richie wakes to the sound of movement coming from outside his door. He hears the _thump-thump-thump_ of suitcases dragged clumsily down the stairs.

He closes his eyes again and takes one more moment to try and shake what’s left of his nightmares from his head before he has to face the surely stressful rest of the day. He’s tired and restless, sleeping feels more useless than staying awake doing nothing would probably feel, and it’s almost impossible to forget the image he keeps seeing every time he closes his eyes. So he puts it to the background of his thoughts where he knows it’ll stay for the foreseeable future and does a mental checklist of what to do before they leave, but before he can think of Eddie’s belongings waiting in the room next door and the fact that he’ll have to gather his guts and go in there to take them sooner or later, someone - he would probably guess Bill - swears just outside his door and then there’s the tell-tale noise of something rolling heavily down the stairs.

He sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. When he checks his phone it’s still a few hours until their flights. The ride to Bangor from Derry only takes about half an hour so at least there is no rush to get ready quite yet. Maybe it’d be better if there was, then he wouldn’t have any time to hesitate and dwell on the thought of having to load up all the suitcases that aren’t his in the trunk of his rental.

He rubs his face underneath his glasses and mouths a breathy “God,” then he pushes on his knees and pulls himself up on his feet.

After he’s done showering and putting on the last of his clean clothes - he hadn’t planned on staying long even before remembering what was expecting them in Derry -, he squares his shoulders and finally gets out of the ratty motel room that he’ll hopefully never have to see again.

He finds Mike sitting cross-legged on the loveseat under the window with a book in one hand and a paper coffee cup in the other. Richie looks around him and sees that Mike brought his suitcases with him, just a couple of them. Mike notices him coming down the stairs and greets him with a “Hey, man, I brought coffee,” and goes back to his book. Only then does Richie see the other three full cups on the table, neatly tucked into a carrier.

“Thanks, Micycle,” he says, and grabs one. He doesn’t much like black coffee, but he can’t see any packets of sugar or cream around and doesn’t really want to go rummaging into the bar cabinet, so he drinks it as it is. He’s feeling worn out and ragged despite sleeping through most of the night and really needs the caffeine.

Richie looks at Mike’s suitcases again, trying to see if there’s more behind the side of the sofa, but there’s still only just the two. That doesn’t seem enough for someone who’s completely eradicating their life to move out of their childhood town. “Aren’t you travelling a little light?”

Mike looks up at him, then follows Richie’s eyes to the suitcases. He puts one of his fingers on the page he’s reading and closes the book around it. Then, with a serene expression, he replies, “It’s pretty much all the stuff I own.” When Richie still looks confused he explains, “Most of the things I had in the apartment were books I’d gotten out of the library and the furniture came with the house so I didn’t really have to worry about that. I had a coffee machine that I bought, but it started jamming a couple of months ago so I guessed it was the right time to get rid of it.”

Richie nods and takes another sip of his coffee, it doesn’t taste any better. Despite Mike’s explanation, something still feels amiss. Mike was in Derry for twenty-seven years, the thought of him alone in the town unsettles him, but knowing that he didn’t even really make a home for himself there is just completely depressing. He feels a sudden and intense tug of affection for this man who had to sacrifice so much of his life, and can’t help but hope that he did manage to find moments of happiness while they weren’t there, new people to love, but most of all he hopes that Mike will get everything he wants from what comes next.

He’s gone through almost half his cup of coffee and can’t possibly swallow any more of its bitterness when he speaks again, “Are the others up?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, “Ben and Bev are finishing packing, Bill went outside for a phone call.”

As if on cue, Bill picks that moment to return, cellphone in one hand and room keys in the other.

“Hey, Rich,” he greets him, “All done packing?”

“Oh, yeah,” Richie drawls self-deprecatingly, “Took me a while to gather my three t-shirts and two pairs of underwear, but I’m finally done.”

Bill laughs. He looks at Mike before turning back to Richie and his smile drops. He seems to brace himself when he looks at his feet before speaking again. “Rich, I was t-t-thinking,” he pockets his phone and fidgets with his keys so he doesn’t have to look at Richie, “We should p-probably bring down Eddie’s s-stuff.”

Richie knew he would eventually have to, but that doesn’t make it any easier. He nods slowly and tries to swallow down the rock that has lodged itself in his trachea, but there’s no winning against imaginary pains. “Yeah…” he mumbles, then louder, “Yeah, let’s do that.”

Bill and Mike exchange a quick look, then Bill extends his hand to the stairs and says, “I’m right behind you.”

Richie nods again and steps ahead. The closer he gets to Eddie’s room, the heavier his feet feel, he’s going so slow he’s surprised Bill hasn’t rushed him yet. When they get to the door, Richie realises that he has no idea if he’s going to be able to open it. He doesn’t have the keys, doesn’t even know if Eddie had them on him when he died, and his hands are shaking so hard that if he tried the handle he probably wouldn’t be able to get it open even if it wasn’t locked.

Before he has to do just that, Bill speaks again. “I found a c-copy of the k-keys in the lobby,” he says and pulls them out of his back pocket, “Beverly offered to pick the lock in case they sh-sh-shouldn’t work.” He smiles at Richie, but Richie’s not looking at him, so it falls flat. Bill follows his gaze to the handle and, offering him the keys, asks, “Do you want to…?”

Richie nods and takes them. He’s painfully aware that he hasn’t spoken in a while and how unlike him that is. He thinks, passingly, that it must be unnerving for them to see him this way and wants to do something about it but his tongue feels like stone in his mouth and nothing witty comes to mind. Richie hates himself like this, didn’t even know he could, because he’s never met this version of himself.

He pushes the keys into the lock and thinks that he must have been sad at least sometimes when he was a kid, surely it isn't the first time the Losers get this version of Richie. As hard as he tries, he can’t remember even one instance of being this silent and self-isolating as a child and he knows it’s not because that particular memory hasn’t trickled back in yet. Back then, whenever he'd been in a particularly bad mood, Eddie's presence had been enough to shake him out of it. He would let Richie poke at him even more than usual when it happened, and his protests and comebacks would mostly be for pretence sake. 

The lock clicks open and Richie pulls the keys out. Then, he just stands there.

“W-w-what if I go in,” Bill shocks him out of his reverie by talking, “and then you h-help me bring the suitcases down?”

Richie looks at Bill’s kind, blue eyes, the worried but reassuring smile on his face, and feels like the luckiest person on earth. He doesn’t know how to tell Bill how grateful he is for him, for how patiently they’ve been treating him, doesn’t know that there are words that are good enough to get it across.

He closes his eyes, and nods again.

As Bill opens the door, Richie can see a trail of dark, dried blood leading into the bathroom. He flinches and looks away. For a second, the wound on Eddie’s chest and his wet, thick blood on Richie’s hands appears behind his eyelids clear as day.

Richie can hear Bill rummaging through the room and gathering the items that Eddie had already taken out of his luggage, but it doesn’t take long and soon enough, Bill is coming out with two huge suitcases and a cylindrical toiletry bag trailing behind him. He takes the keys from Richie’s hands delicately and locks the door, saving Richie the trouble of having to see the stains of blood again.

Richie reaches for one of the suitcases to help bring them downstairs, but hesitates just before touching it as if it’s going to burn him, long enough for Bill to notice and say, “I c-c-can ask Mike to help, he’s got the arms for it.”

Richie shakes his head and takes the suitcase, his hand doesn’t hesitate this time and when he touches its handle, nothing happens at all. He grips it firmly and pulls it down the stairs. Bill is close behind him with the other one.

They make their way outside and try to cram the luggage into Richie’s trunk, but his rental isn’t exactly made for family-sized travelling gear, so one of the suitcases ends up on the equally small backseat of the red convertible. If he’d known he was going to have to bring his dead best friend’s luggage back to L.A. with him, he would have rented a more practical car, Richie thinks bitterly.

While Bill and Richie are loading the car, Beverly, Ben, and Mike come out with their bags too and when they’re done with Eddie’s stuff, Richie and Bill help lift the others' luggage into Ben’s car. They’re travelling much lighter than Eddie had, they all are, even Mike, and it doesn’t take long at all.

They decide that there’s no reason to spend any more time at the dingy old place that Derry calls a hotel and after stuffing the last of their carry-on bags in the cars and leaving their room keys inside, they jump in - Bill with him, and Bev and Mike with Ben - and head to Bangor, planning on getting lunch in the city before heading for the airport.

They eat in a small park after having picked up wraps from a food truck that’s a little more hipster than Richie would like, and nobody comments on how Eddie wouldn’t have let them hear the end of how unsanitary food trucks are, but Richie knows they think it anyway. They chat of nothing at all, just wasting the time before they have to go, and make a group chat so they can keep in contact. Beverly is the first to send a text, right in front of them, and when Richie opens it, it’s a picture of them sitting right there at that moment. They all look up at Beverly, who smirks, and Richie wonders how they hadn’t noticed her taking it. He can’t help but smile back at her, she looks at him and seems especially pleased when she realises his smile is sincere, and grins wider.

Once they get to the airport, they separate to check-in their luggage. Bill suggests they split Eddie’s bags between them so they don’t have to pay a surcharge. He and Richie both only came with carry-ons - although Bill’s is a lot more organised and not in a gym bag - so the idea makes perfect sense, yet the thought of having to separate from Eddie’s things leaves a lingering feeling of restlessness in his hands when he puts them on the conveyor belt for the employee behind the airline desk to weigh them.

Somehow, the others are done before them. When they reconvene, they only have about half an hour before having to separate again, so they start saying their goodbyes.

As everyone hugs and each of them promises over and over to keep in contact - _I won’t forget you this time_ lingers unsaid in the air, but the weight of it is obvious on each of their shoulders -, Richie’s eyes start stinging again, but he notices he’s not the only one. They’re still scared, some things are harder to leave behind than others, and their hugs are a little tighter than they should be.

Eventually, Richie manages to go through Mike and Ben’s hugs. Then Ben lets him go and it’s Beverly’s turn to hug him goodbye.

She squeezes him harder than any of the others had and when they separate, she takes his face in her hands and tells him, “Hey, Richie? Don’t shut us out, okay?” She looks from one of his eyes to the other and he swallows. He can’t bring himself to promise because deep down he knows that maybe it’s already too late. He knows it from drinking ‘till he can’t feel his fingertips and not talking while they eat together. And he knows it because he hasn’t considered, even once, that maybe they miss Eddie too and that he should feel sadder about Stan.

His eyes gloss over, become watery, and though he doesn’t cry, he nods and doesn’t speak. He already knows he’s gonna break this promise.

They finally give their backs to each other, Bill and Richie go in one direction, while Beverly, Ben, and Mike go in the other. He looks back one last time before they round a corner and he can’t see them anymore.

Bill slows down to wait for him, presses a hand on his shoulder when they fall into step together, and when Richie looks over, Bill has tear tracks on his cheeks and a tight smile on his lips.

Richie squeezes the hand on his shoulder but doesn’t say anything, and they keep walking. Soon enough, their plane is taking off.

Even if they’re on the same flight, Richie and Bill couldn’t get seats next to each other.

He has a window seat, while Bill is a few rows behind him, not too far. As soon as he takes his place, Richie’s seat is shaken by the kicks of a kid sitting behind him and he can hear an exasperated mother barely managing to keep her voice in as she tries to control the child.

Richie sighs. He can’t bear the thought of having to go through several hours of flying with nothing to do but listening to their bickering and dwelling on what he’s leaving behind, so he rummages through his duffel in search of the sleeping pills that he keeps there exactly for this reason, and pushes two down dryly, waiting impatiently for sleep to take over.

He’s barely closed his eyes when a cold white light surrounds him and he covers his face, sure that something must have happened to the plane. He thinks instinctively to Bill and hopes he’s okay, but when he finally adjusts to the brightness and opens his eyes, he realises he’s back in the white dimensionless dream room where he imagined Eddie’s healed body.

He’s already standing this time and sure enough, when he looks down, Eddie is there, just as motionless and pristine as he’d been two nights before.

Richie crouches and checks for a heartbeat again, he already knows it to be useless, but his mood falls even lower when he can’t find one this time either. He lets Eddie’s wrist go and puts a hand on his woundless chest instead. It moves as it would if Eddie was still alive and breathing. Richie grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut with a fist to his forehead, he just can’t understand.

He thinks of the other nightmares he’s had, of Eddie dying over and over again in front of him, and almost prefers them to this fruitless hope. He takes Eddie’s hand that's closest to him and leans into his side, barely managing not to cry, but there’s no need at all to force the tears in because once again no tears come out when they should. 

“Eddie...” he whispers, not expecting an answer.

Richie doesn’t know how long he stays there, lying on Eddie and listening to the billowing rumble of the room around him and wishing the noise came from the body beneath him.

He’s just bracing himself to fill the silence with some mindless and one-sided chatter when suddenly, a low, echoing noise resounds that isn’t the usual rumble from afar and Richie sits up abruptly but doesn’t let go of Eddie’s hand. He looks around, then at Eddie, searching the space for the source, but there’s nothing there, just the shifting whiteness of the room. Then, it sounds again, closer this time, and Richie can almost make out what it is but he still can’t see where it’s coming from.

The third time, he hears it clearly: “Richie Tozier.” The words slide into his brain more than grace his ears, and roll through the bones of his ribcage slow and heavy.

Richie thinks he sees the shape of a shell, a flash of something blue and watery to his left but before he can focus on it, it’s gone again.

“Hello?” he calls back hesitantly and waits for an answer, but it doesn’t come. “Hello?” he tries again, a little louder, but nothing changes.

He looks back to Eddie, squeezes his hand once more, and the next time he blinks, the plane is landing.

Richie waits for most of the other passengers to get off before he stands up and slides his duffel bag on his shoulder while perching his glasses on his head and rubbing at his eyes. There’s the unpleasant sensation behind his eyes of having looked into too bright a light for too long and he blinks several times to readjust to the weaker light of the airplane. Outside, the sky is already dark, Richie’s phone tells him it’s almost nine.

Bill is waiting for him when he gets off, trolley in one hand and phone in the other. He’s looking at the small screen and smiling slightly.

When Richie approaches him, he looks up and asks, “Hey man, did you catch any s-s-sleep?”

Richie nods and they start walking toward the baggage pick-up area. “Yeah, I took a couple of sleeping pills and just passed out. There was a kid right behind me who wouldn’t stop kicking my seat,” _I was this close to just downing the entire bottle and calling it a day_ , he almost says, but the image of Stan bleeding out in his bathtub makes him think it might be too soon to joke about suicide. “I’m glad I wasn’t awake for that,” he finishes lamely instead. Bill snorts.

While they wait for Eddie’s bags to roll out, Bill shows him the group chat on his phone, Richie still hasn’t turned airplane mode off on his. The others landed several hours before them and are already flooding it with dumb emojis and random texts as if Ben and Beverly have the free time instead of consummating their newfound love for each other in a fit of irresistible passion. But then again, Richie doesn’t think Mike would love being in the middle of that.

Richie hums and smiles at the right times, but he’s distracted. He can’t stop hearing the echoing sound of his name being called while he slept. He tries to place the voice, to remember if he’s heard it before, but he comes up short.

After they get Eddie’s bags, they exit the airport and flag a couple of taxis. Bill doesn’t live far from him, but it makes more sense to drive separately, even though Richie can tell that Bill would prefer not having to let him go yet.

He promises Richie to meet soon and helps him load Eddie’s suitcases in the trunk of the taxi.

Before going their way, they hug goodbye. “I’ll see you soon, Rich,” Bill tells him, then, “Hey, check the g-group text sometime, ok?”

Richie salutes him half-heartedly as he walks away, and Bill chuckles.

When he finally gets home, he leaves all the bags in the entrance and collapses into his bed still dressed.

He dreams of the white room again, but this time he’s alone. He lies down on his back and looks at the rippling impression of the ceiling until he forgets where he is.

Nobody calls for him this time. 

The next afternoon, when Richie wakes up, he feels lost. 

He’s tired even though he’s slept dreamlessly through most of the night and a good part of the morning, and he knows there are things he should be doing but doesn’t know where to start and doesn’t particularly want to either.

He blocked his manager’s number as soon as he realised he couldn’t keep his phone on airplane mode if he wanted to get the messages the others send in their new group text, not that he answers them that often.

He knows he’s acting like a child, that he can’t avoid his responsibilities for much longer and that his manager will eventually let himself into Richie’s house with the copy of the keys he’d had made when Richie was just starting his bigger shows and ended up drinking heavily after each one to try and stump down the lingering anxiety.

He can’t find the willingness to care. After all, if he cared about his career he wouldn’t have brushed off his manager by lying to him about going to Derry and not letting him know he was coming back in the first place.

He walks to the kitchen and sees the bags exactly where he left them the night before. He thinks briefly of going through them and finding a place for Eddie’s things, but the thought makes his stomach turn so he doubles back to leave them behind him and walks into the living room instead.

Before he has consciously made the decision, he approaches the thin bookcase at the entrance of the living room and flips through the small collection of vinyl records that he has compiled over the years while touring.

After he’d signed with his agency, on the third night of his first important tour, he’d performed at the weirdest place he’d ever thought one could put a stage. It had once been a vintage record store, a shop so old and probably so little profitable at the time that the owner had opened it up to make space for a small stage and a few seats, leaving part of the old shop up to surround the just as tiny bar on the other end of the room. If one wanted, they could still buy the records that were left.

By the time Richie had performed there, the place had gotten enough of a reputation that instead of the old shithole it looked like, it had gained itself the name of an exclusive comedy club.

After his set, he’d stumbled to the bar on shaky legs - the anxiety was still fresh and intense at the time - intending to get himself a drink or five, but had gotten distracted by a particular record on a case on the left of the sitting area and had felt compelled to take a better look at it like a magnet attracted to metal, had bought it without much of a thought even though he couldn’t remember ever having seen or heard it before. In the end, he hadn’t drunk at all that night.

As he looks at the cover of the vinyl now, he understands why.

A few months before Eddie had turned sixteen, after a particularly harsh argument with his mother, she had caved and let Eddie bring an old LP player that had belonged to his father out of the basement in an attempt to appease him and get him back under her thumb. It hadn’t worked, back then they hadn’t forgotten their past yet, and the memory of his medications being completely useless had still stung fresh in Eddie’s mind, nonetheless, he’d gotten a vinyl player out of it. That year, for his birthday, the Losers had all put together some of their savings and had bought Eddie, under Richie’s suggestion, a vinyl of The Cure’s _Wish_ album, among other things.

Eddie had become obsessed with it. He’d listened to it for days on end on repeat to the point that, as self-satisfied as Richie had been for getting the present right, he couldn’t listen to it anymore without getting nauseous. But, uncharacteristically, he’d never said anything to Eddie about it, too endeared by the happy smile on his face and the soft voice he used to sing along to the songs, quiet enough that he thought Richie couldn’t hear.

In the end, Richie’d learned to love that record like one does the things that the people they care about love, as if they become the very extension of those people and there is nothing one can do to stop loving them.

Richie smiles sadly at the record in his hands, makes up his mind to play it even before he can weigh the fact that it’s probably going to make him cry. He pushes it delicately onto the player next to the TV and lowers the needle on it, lying down on the sofa and listening to the crinkly sound of dust it plays before the first song starts, and lets the noise lull him back to sleep.

This time, when he opens his eyes, he’s not taken aback by the unbearably white space. 

Richie immediately looks around searching for Eddie. He’s lying just a few feet from him in the same position as he always is, and his chest is still moving as if filling with air, but he makes no noise.

Richie approaches him slowly. “Hey, Eds.” The soft greeting tumbles out of his mouth before he can think about it. He sits on the floor against his side and takes Eddie’s wrist in the circle of his hand, instinctively searching for a heartbeat that he knows won’t come.

“I’m starting to think there might be something I’m missing here,” he tries to joke, but it comes out choked and sob-like, “Is this some fucked up way my brain is trying to make me come to terms with your death or something?”

He’s not waiting for an answer, so when it does come, Richie jumps.

“It is not-” a pause, “-Richie Tozier.”

The voice is the same that had called for him while he slept on the plane. This time, it comes clear on the first try and just as before, it booms into his chest and reverberates through his organs. Richie looks around, sees that blue flash again. When he focuses on it, he realises it’s an eye. A massive, wet, round eye, looking straight at him. It moves gently through the space, floating in time with the swishing sound that pervades the air. When the space ripples, Richie sees the edge of a white shell again, thinks he can distinguish part of a large fin swimming through the air.

“Who-” Richie croaks, clears his throat and tries again, “Who are you?” His grip on Eddie’s wrist tightens and he readies himself for a fight. His experience with hallucinations and visions hasn’t exactly been the most positive, and he really doesn’t want to try his luck, especially not after already having lost Eddie once. He feels very protective over this dream version of him that isn't alive, but not really dead either.

“My name,” the voice rumbles into him, speaks slowly, “is Maturin.”

The thing’s- _Maturin’s_ voice reverberating through him is a weird sensation. Richie isn’t sure he’s ever felt anything like it, but if he had to compare it to something, he’d say it feels like pushing a speaker playing music really loudly into the skin of your torso, multiplied by hundreds. It’s not unpleasant, but not exactly soothing either. It puts him on edge and rattles his very core, gives him the knowledge that he is tiny, and the voice could splinter him.

He looks around, tries to follow the eye and the vague shape of its body with his own gaze without leaving Eddie’s side, but it swims away through the white space and eventually disappears into the distance. “What is this place?” Richie asks it but even without waiting, somehow he knows he won’t get an answer.

He sighs, looks at Eddie again. “That was weird, huh?” his voice trembles, he still feels on edge.

The swooshing sound of the space has become familiar enough to Richie that the otherwise silence feels stifling. He opens his mouth to fill it more than once but doesn’t know what he wants to say. Eventually, the words come out on their own.

“I bought that old record we gave you for your birthday,” he tells Eddie, and continues without waiting for a reaction, “You know, the one by The Cure.” He looks down and swallows, tries to understand where he’s going with this. “I mean, not like just now. God, can you imagine how pathetic that would be?” he chuckles, hollow, “If I got back the memory and immediately went out to find that album so I can - I don’t know - listen to it and think about you? Cry my eyes out like a lovesick teenager?” _Like that isn’t exactly what I’m doing even though I’ve had it for ages_ , he doesn’t say.

He fiddles with the cuff of Eddie’s hoodie distractedly, folding and unfolding the seam on itself and trying to push out the memory.

“You used to listen to it all the time when we were at your house.” He smiles sadly to the ground, Eddie’s young face comes easily to his eyes, “It used to drive me crazy.”

Richie tries to imagine what Eddie would say if he could, probably something along the lines of “It’s not like I could read your mind, dipshit, how was I supposed to know if you never said?” or “That’s because your taste in music sucks balls.” He laughs to himself, wonders briefly if he knows Eddie enough to imagine that he would still be the same even as an adult. He wants to believe so, but the reality of it is that he doesn’t know for sure, and he’ll never get to find out. It makes him unbearably angry, but mostly just extremely defeated.

“I miss you, you know,” the words hurt to get out, they bring a dry sob to his throat. “I didn’t even know you existed for thirty years and now I can’t-” he chokes, if he was able to cry in this space, the tears would be flowing messily on his cheeks, “I can’t even imagine going another thirty days without you. Why- I- Ugh-” He wheezes and folds in on himself, resting his forehead on Eddie's abdomen. If he was alive, the grip Richie has on his hand would be painful, but he’s not, he can’t feel a thing. The thought sends Richie shaking into his chest.

He wails tearlessly until he feels tired. He doesn’t know for how long, has no way of measuring time in this white void where a minute feels like eternity and a day like a second. Eventually, he stops, lets Eddie’s chest move his face up and down with it, sighs into the torn fabric of Eddie’s shirt and on the skin of his exposed chest. He feels unnaturally calm, the same feeling of motionlessness when his body is ready to fall asleep, that half a minute when his mind has quieted enough for rest but hasn’t started dreaming yet. He imagines he can hear the air fill Eddie’s lungs, knows it’s only in his mind.

He’s just about to speak again when a noise, foreign and loud, breaks through the whiteness and startles him awake.

Richie opens his eyes to his doorbell ringing furiously and the static of the finished LP filling the room. He looks around confusedly, he’d expected his manager to come for him sooner or later but had thought he would have a little more time before that happened. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits up on the sofa cushions. While he was sleeping, drool trickled out of his open mouth and left a sticky line of saliva on his chin which only adds to how disgusting he already feels.

He gets up as the doorbell sounds again, and lifts the needle from the uselessly rotating disc as he makes his way to the door, dodging the suitcases that are still in the entranceway. He only remembers that his manager has a copy of his apartment keys as he’s already opening his front door. He has half a second to panic but realises he doesn’t need to when instead of some stranger coming for his life - somebody else might have suspected Jehovah's witnesses, or someone bringing back a letter that was delivered to the wrong address, but he’s still a little jumpy from their latest clown encounter and the paranoia is hard to shake -, he finds Bill on the other side of the door.

He must look like complete garbage, Richie thinks, because the first thing Bill tells him when he sees him is “Were you sleeping?” No “Hello” or “Sorry for coming unannounced”, only “Were you sleeping?” with a slight judgemental tinge to the words.

“I- uh- I was-” Richie feels like justifying himself, pointing behind him with a thumb and trying to come up with a good excuse for his appearance but when none is forthcoming, he sighs and wipes a hand on his face instead, pushing his glasses askew on the way. “Yes,” he admits resignedly, “I was sleeping. Wanna come in?” He moves out of the way and invites Bill in with a swipe of the hand he isn’t using to keep the door open.

Bill steps in and Richie lets the door close behind them. He can see Bill staring at the suitcases pushed to the side just enough nobody will trip on them. He can also see the effort Bill is making not to say anything about them and when Bill opens his mouth to speak again, he's expecting some kind of comment or a spiel about how dumb it was for Richie to take them if he was intending on leaving them to gather dust. Instead, what Richie sees on his face is worry and, if he looks even closer, sadness. Then, Bill lifts a plastic bag Richie hadn't noticed him carrying and says "I brought pizza," with the most sympathetic and forced smile Richie has ever seen him make.

He feels stupid all of a sudden, for having assumed Bill crueller than he's ever been capable of. Bill, who only ever hurt him when he was awash with grief and guilt and didn't even really mean to.

Richie looks at the suitcases, at the bag Bill is holding, and a strangled laugh comes out of him more like a pained squeak. He doesn't feel like himself, isn't sure he even knows what he's supposed to be, but knows that he wouldn’t have doubted his friends before they were torn apart.

Bill seems disconcerted for a few seconds, at a loss for what to do with this Richie on his hands. "I swear I didn't get puh-pineapple," he tries to joke, and Richie could kiss him for that, for the out he's being given.

“Isn’t it a bit early for dinner, Big Bill?” Richie asks him as they make their way to the living room.

Bill sits down on the couch, pulls the pizza carton out of the plastic bag and places it on the coffee table while Richie turns off the record player and puts the LP back into its case. “Richie,” Bill says, “It’s eight in the evening.”

“What,” Richie laughs incredulously, “No, it’s not.” But when he pulls out his phone from the pocket of his sweats, 8:27 shines at him, along with about a hundred and thirty missed messages in the group text. “Shit, I guess I went into a coma for a while there,” Richie tries to make light of his unhealthy amount of sleep, hoping Bill won’t ask how long he’s actually been out for the count.

It seems to work for a bit, Bill laughs and Richie goes to grab a couple of beers from his fridge before sitting next to him so they can dig into the pizza while some innocuous movie plays on the TV, the volume too low for them to pay attention.

When the pizza has been demolished and only a couple of inches of beer remain in their bottles, Richie feels the atmosphere change. He could probably tell the exact moment Bill shifts toward him on the couch if he wasn’t looking distractedly at the TV screen while lost in his own thoughts of white rippling spaces and Eddie’s apparently unscathed body. In retrospect, that is probably what makes Bill start the conversation in the first place.

“So,” Bill begins, forcedly casual, “How has it actually buh-b-been, aside from the sleeping?” He looks at Richie who, on his part, can immediately tell that Bill is looking for a reaction, some kind of sign of what is going on behind Richie’s weirdly sluggish demeanour.

Richie thumbs at the remote, mostly for something to do with his hands, and brings the volume even lower. He doesn’t think they’re gonna need it anyway, seen how the night seems to be about to go. He shrugs coolly, tries to shake the feeling of words tumbling out of his mouth away and keeps his eyes straight ahead. “Never been better, Billiam,” he says sarcastically, “Never been so on top of my game, you know.” When he looks at Bill to see his reaction, he feels immediately guilty. He’s being difficult on purpose, realises how much effort it must take their friends to be around him ever since Eddie died and feels sorry for Bill for drawing the short straw of living so close.

When Bill returns his gaze, however, he doesn’t look resigned or angry, he just looks worried. And apologetic? “Yeah, I know,” he breathes out, “That was a s-s-stupid question.”

Richie’s stomach drops even lower, guilt making its way into a knot high in his throat. Once again, he feels like crying. “No, it’s...” he sighs, shakes his head slightly, “I- Thanks for asking, Bill.” Sincerity doesn’t come easy to him, but he’d rather feel uncomfortable than disappoint Bill. “It’s been shit,” he blurts out, “It’s so fucking… just fucking ridiculous that he’s just gone. _Poof!_ ” he mimes an explosion with his hands, “We just remembered each other after _twenty-seven fucking years_ ,” his voice goes dangerously high, “and then he just fucking died. And I didn’t- I couldn’t even-” he hesitates, chokes on what he wants to say and realises he’s started crying. He swallows painfully, but the brick that lodged itself in his throat just won’t go away.

Bill squeezes one of his shoulders, leaves his hand there when Richie manages to push more words out. “I couldn’t even get to know the person he became,” he sobs out finally, hides his face in both of his hands while his shoulders shake with his crying.

Bill pulls him into his chest and holds him with his chin on his bent head. Richie hasn’t felt this small since he was eleven, hasn’t needed Bill’s comfort like this since then either.

They stay like that without saying anything for a few minutes. Richie cries until he doesn’t anymore and when he stops shaking, Bill lets him go. Richie rubs at his eyes and nose and cleans his tear-stained glasses with the hem of his t-shirt before putting them back on.

“I m-miss him, too,” Bill says, not unkindly. 

Richie looks at him with a sad smile. He knows they all do, that Eddie was as much part of their family as he was for him, but can’t help thinking that Bill doesn’t know what it means, that it’s not the same. But Richie can’t blame him.

He has to wonder if any of them ever had any inkling of how Richie felt - how he still feels, some things don’t die with the body - about Eddie but imagines they couldn’t have. Richie barely knew it himself back then, didn’t live in a town that welcomed any kind of self-reflection, would have probably been punished for it if he ever came to any realisation at all. That still hadn’t stopped him from spending long sleepless nights finding excuses for why he always wanted to touch Eddie, for teasing him, yearning for his attention every moment he was looking at someone else, no matter for how long or how short or how significantly. Back then, he’d shrugged it off, attributed it to the fact that Eddie was easy to get a rise out of, that his reactions were the funniest, most satisfying ones and that was all the reason for Richie’s fixation on exasperating him. Never mind that every single time, he’d also intentionally ignored how he didn’t feel any strong desire to rile the other Losers up, not in the same way, hadn’t at all considered how Eddie didn’t seem to get quite as aggravated with anybody else’s jokes.

And then, they’d gone their own ways and Richie had forgotten he’d ever felt anything at all.

When Richie doesn’t answer, Bill doesn’t rush him, leaves him the empty space to fill if he feels like it. It’s that silence, that calming unhurriedness that pulls the next words out of Richie’s mouth before he can decide he wants to speak them. “I’ve been dreaming about him,” he almost whispers.

Bill takes an audible breath and doesn’t say anything. Richie moves his eyes up from his lap to look at him. He can tell that Bill wants to say something, but hasn’t quite found the words yet. “You know, when I-” he finally speaks, hesitates, “When G-Georgie first disappeared,” he tries again, “I kept having n-nightmares. I saw him stranded and alone in t-the sewers, in t-the Barrens, lost and scared where I c-c-couldn’t reach him-”

“No, that’s not-” Richie interrupts him, and Bill falls silent, giving him yet more space to elaborate. “It’s like he’s alive, but he’s- he’s-” he doesn’t know how to explain it, “He’s breathing but he’s not and there’s nothing… There’s nothing else.”

“I think that’s-” Bill starts, puts a gentle hand on his shoulder again, squeezing lightly. His tone is kind when he continues, “I know it duh-doesn’t feel like it right now, but I think that’s normal, Richie. It’s gonna g-get b-better with time.”

Richie sighs and nods. Somehow, he knows that’s not what the dreams are, that they’re not just a coping mechanism for what happened, but he hasn’t been able to understand them yet himself and he’s hesitant to find any other meaning to them than guilt and regret. The only other answer that makes sense is that It is still torturing him, but that would mean they failed, that Eddie died for nothing, and he just can’t face that. Hopes he won’t have to. “Yeah,” he forces out, goes for a grateful smile but isn’t sure he manages it, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Bill squeezes his shoulder one last time, smiles kindly, and lets his hand fall to his own lap.

Richie glances at the television for a distraction, he doesn’t feel like talking about it any more and the moment has ended anyway. The screen is black, the words “Are you still watching?” blink at him. He turns it off and pushes the remote on the coffee table just as Bill looks at his watch.

“It’s gotten p-pretty late, huh,” he says lamely, mostly to break the silence. “I’ll help you put away this stuff,” he starts reaching for the empty pizza box and the abandoned, luke-warm beer still left in their bottles, “Then I sh-sh-should probably head out.”

“You can stay and sleep here,” Richie blurts out without knowing he would, “I mean, if you want. I have a guest bedroom and everything.”

Bill pauses, tries to read his expression. Richie thinks he knows what he sees there, desperation probably, and maybe the desire not to be alone. Bill nods and smiles, big and earnest. “Sure, I’d l-l-like that.” Then, he takes the glass bottles from the coffee table and passes them to Richie. “Let’s take care of the g-garbage first, okay?”

Richie thanks him internally, takes the bottles and stands up to lead the way to the kitchen. “Aw, Bill, don’t talk about yourself like that,” it’s a weak joke, but he hopes Bill will be able to read the gratitude under it.

Bill stands up after him and nudges his side with the empty pizza box. When Richie looks at him over his shoulder, he sees a small satisfied smile on his face and feels warm. For a moment, he wishes he was capable of saying the words, to let Bill and the other Losers know how happy he is that they found each other again, but the sadness he expects from that thought never comes, because he knows that he doesn’t need to say it for them to understand.

That night, after he leads Bill to the guest bedroom and makes his way to his own room, he thinks of Stan. Remembers once again how he’d always been silently taking care of them, beneath his exasperated eye-rolling and the long-suffering sighs, to the point of going out of his way to make sure they wouldn’t get spiders in their hair. He hadn’t thought about it twice when he was thirteen, but he feels the weight of it now, weighs it against Stan’s absence and comes up desolately short. He thinks about what Stan had said back then, about losing each other, and can’t help but wonder if it had ever hurt, if there was ever a moment where Stan was left behind and the rest of them had already started forgetting. Hopes, with his entire soul, that if there was, Stan didn’t have to remember it before he took his own life.

Thinking of Stan makes it hard to fall asleep but when he does, he's still reminiscing about that day in the clubhouse and the tiny hammock, and when he gets to the white space again, Eddie's still there.

He looks around, what he now thinks he knows is a turtle isn’t there. _Maturin_ , he remembers its name. The space still ripples and whooshes, though, and Richie thinks it mustn’t be far.

He lies next to Eddie, curls his body toward him and takes his hand, fingertips automatically going to the absent pulse in his wrist. He looks at Eddie’s chest rise and fall and tells him about the memory, asks him if he also missed Stan. As per usual, he doesn’t get an answer.

When Bill leaves in the morning, he goes with the promise of being back later in the day if Richie will have him. Richie can’t tell him no, doesn’t particularly want to either, but he doesn’t mind having a few hours to himself while Bill goes out on his business.

He feels drained from their talk the night before and as long and soundly as he’s been sleeping, every time he wakes up from the white void, he doesn’t feel quite as rested as he should.

When he shuts the door behind Bill, he looks at the suitcases sitting accusingly against the wall and sighs. He gathers his courage and grabs the biggest one, dragging it behind him to his bedroom to sort through it before he can chicken out.

Richie lifts it onto his bed with some effort, had already forgotten how full and heavy it had been as he loaded it into his rental. He reaches for the zipper with shaky hands, is surprised to see that Eddie didn’t use a lock to secure it closed but assumes Eddie didn’t imagine he wouldn’t get a chance to go back to do it. He slides the zipper open in one swift pull, like he would to lift a bandaid stuck to a particularly painful patch of skin.

For as anxious as it had made him, the inside of the suitcase is remarkably unassuming. There are several rows of perfectly folded polos in almost every colour of the rainbow, and a just as similarly neat row of jeans and pants. The sides of the suitcase where the zipper meets the harder material of the rest of the luggage bulge with small paper boxes. Richie reaches for one and sees that they all contain pills for different conditions.

Somehow the sight makes him angrier than he ever expected to be. The palms of his balled hands sting with the realisation that when Eddie had gone to Derry, he hadn’t remembered the argument with his mom yet, the time he’d found out that all the pills she had been giving him were useless, just a means to make him feel scared and weak. Richie grits his teeth at the knowledge that Eddie ended up trapped again, for twenty-seven years, and the appearance of his wife, so similar to his mother, finally makes sense.

He throws the box back into the bag carelessly, reaches for a polo instead, trying to think of a place to store Eddie’s belongings and coming up short. When he touches the fabric of it, he pulls his hand away as if burned, rezips the suitcase closed just as fast. In the end, he doesn’t look at Eddie’s things again, just stuffs them under his unmade bed and decides it will be a problem for another day, another month entirely.

Richie spends the time before Bill comes back going through his fridge. It’s almost entirely empty, but he looks at the few items there one by one, throws out the ones that expired while he was in Derry and is left with an even less appealing assortment of food. At one point, he’s tempted to listen to the Cure LP again, decides against it and turns on a TV show he’s only mildly interested in as background noise. He grabs his laptop to check his e-mails but before he can get to it, Bill knocks on his door and Richie sighs in relief at the excuse to put work off again.

Bill comes back with more bags than he left. He’s holding another carrier full of food - Richie can tell by the aroma that wafts out of it - and wearing a laptop bag over one shoulder. In his other hand, he has what looks like a small stack of letters. He holds them up to Richie after he closes the door behind him. “They were outside your d-door,” Bill tells him. Richie takes them, sees Bill notice the empty space where the suitcases had been, but Bill doesn’t comment on it, makes his way to the living room with a carefully blank look on his face.

Richie hears him put the bags on the coffee table and sifts through his mail absent-mindedly, discards a letter with his agency’s name on it on the kitchen island on his way to the living room but stops short when he sees the name _Uris_ scribbled in neat handwriting on one of the other envelopes.

He can feel the blood drain from his face. Bill must notice his sudden pallor because he walks over and peers at the piece of paper. “Hey, what-” the question dies on his lips when he reads the name.

Richie swallows thickly and turns the envelope around, slides a shaky finger under the flap that keeps it closed and tears the folded paper to get the letter out.

He takes it in his shaky hands and starts reading, ‘ _Dear Losers, I know what this must seem like…_ ’ 

He follows the lines one by one, his jaw locks harder with each word. Bill is looking at his face, unwilling to intrude on something that is only addressed to Richie, but Richie can tell he’s dying to know what Stan wrote.

‘ _...If you find someone worth holding on to? Never fucking let them go..._ ’ He reads and swallows again. His chest fills with something he isn’t sure he wants to name. He closes his eyes briefly, then continues to the last few words. 

‘ _...And don't ever forget: We're Losers. And we always will be._ ’ He rereads the last line at least three times, can feel something about to burst, a grip tighten around his lungs painfully. 

He passes the letter to Bill, anxious to get it out of his hands, as far from himself as he can, and makes his way to the kitchen, opens one of the upper cabinets and pulls out a bottle of vodka. He proceeds to pour himself an almost overflowing glass and looks at Bill’s reactions while he reads. Richie tries to match the feelings he can see there - sadness, concern, almost desolation - to the ones mounting in him, but they don’t quite match up.

He feels wrong, knows that what he’s feeling isn’t the reaction he should be having. He’s angry, getting more furious by the second, and he doesn’t know exactly at who it’s directed. Some of it bounces inwards, frustration with his own inability to feel sad about what Stan wrote, but some of it is aimed at Stan himself. Stan who left them to deal with the aftermath, who took himself not only away from the situation but from them, too. Eddie might have died and gone, but at least he didn’t want to, didn’t willfully decide to break apart what they now have to figure out is left of their family after twenty-seven years.

Richie thinks that, and feels immeasurably guilty. He drinks, downs the alcohol faster than he should and it burns something fierce as it goes down but manages to loosen the pressure in his abdomen. The flash of anger is gone as fast as it came, all it leaves behind is the realisation of how much Stan had to give up.

Richie feels tired, feels empty, feels like drinking a lot more. Before he can go for a second glass, Bill joins him in the kitchen and passes the letter back to him. Richie puts it back in the envelope and leaves it on the counter, next to the other unopened ones. Neither of them says a word. Then, Bill sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Can I get some of t-th-that?” Bill asks, points to the vodka bottle. Richie slides it to him and grabs him a glass from the side of the sink.

They stand there. Bill drinks slowly while Richie looks at the bottom of his empty glass as if it can give him the answer to a question he hasn’t asked, doesn’t know to. Eventually, they put away the liquor and try to make something of the afternoon. They don’t talk about the letter at all.

They share the food Bill brought, and Richie looks for something on the TV again, the volume just as low as the night before.

Bill settles into the couch with his laptop perched on his knees, mentions a new book he needs to be working on and they spend the day in mostly comfortable silence. Richie finally gets to the e-mails he’s been avoiding, deletes most of them and leaves the ones he knows are important unread. Bill gets a couple of calls, takes them on the small balcony of Richie’s living room and speaks in hushed tones. Once or twice Richie can hear his own name, followed by Ben’s, sometimes even Eddie's, and guesses that must be who Bill’s talking to.

He checks his phone. He’s been neglecting their group text for long enough that he has missed several pictures Mike sent of his visit to New York. Some of them have Beverly and Ben in them, too, sitting at what looks like a fancy pub table and smiles genuine on their faces. He shoots them a quick ‘ _All good in the Tozier household, world-famous author Billiam Denbrough saves the day again_ ’ followed by a worrying combination of emojis, and hopes that’ll be enough to let them know he’s not doing exactly fine, but okay enough. Nevermind that he doesn’t know he is.

Richie gets the call a couple of hours later and it's Beverly. At first, he almost decides to let it ring until it doesn't anymore, sure that Beverly will try Bill next, but an urgency he can’t make out the origin of compels him to answer.

“Good evening, oh Mighty Beverly,” he greets her in an attempt at an English crumpet accent, it’s half-assed at best.

“Richie,” her voice is rushed, “I’ve been trying Bill’s phone but it’s off. Is he still with you?”

Bill looks up from his laptop, a questioning look on his face. Richie looks at him and tells him, “Your phone died.” He sees him pull it out of his pocket and try the screen, which stays black. In his ear, Beverly speaks again.

“Good,” she says, “Listen, Richie, I know this is going to sound insane.” Richie sits up straight, thinks of the worst and Pennywise’s painted face pops in front of his eyes. She continues, “It’s about Stan.”

That is not what he was expecting. “What?” he asks with a wheeze, “What about Stan?” He looks up at Bill, who, at the mention of the name, pushes the laptop aside and stands up to get closer, sitting next to Richie and pressing his ear against the outside of Richie’s phone.

“He- He-” she stutters, “Richie. He’s alive.” Beverly’s voice is exhilarated and disbelieving at the same time. She tells them the news as if it’s too good to be true and Richie thinks, _Yeah, it is_. “His wife, Patricia, just called me. She still had my number since I called her when we were in Derry,” she explains, “When we talked back then, Stan had been taken to the hospital. The doctors were sure he wouldn’t make it but then he did. He was asleep for a few days but he woke up this morning and he’s going to get better.” Her voice is shaky now, tears audible in her tone, but she isn’t sad. “Richie, he’s going to be okay,” she laughs around a sob.

Richie drops his phone, it bounces off the couch and onto the carpet. Delirious, nervous laughter bubbles out of his mouth and he looks at Bill. Bill is looking back at him, mouth gaping and eyebrows raised in disbelief. Richie can see a twinkle of hope in his eyes. He dives for the phone and tries to get his mouth under control. “Can we see him?” he asks Beverly.

“Yes, yes!” she very nearly shouts, “Mike is still here, Ben is booking the tickets to Atlanta as we speak. We should be there in the morning.”

Richie nods, remembers Beverly can’t see him and says, “Okay, we’ll get tickets, too. We’ll meet you at the airport, I’ll let you know what time we land later.” Beverly agrees and they end the call.

“I-” Bill starts, opens and closes his mouth several times, “Is this r-r-real?”

Richie doesn’t know how to answer. It seems too convoluted a plan for the horror clown, and he’s pretty sure It would try and get them back to Derry and not Atlanta. “I have no idea,” he ends up saying, “but we’re getting tickets to Atlanta anyway.”

That is exactly what they do. They find a flight leaving later in the evening that will get them there the next morning. After booking it, they send a text in the group chat with the time they should be able to be there and then Bill leaves to grab a few things from his apartment. They separate with plans to meet at the airport and Richie packs too, pulls out the duffel bag he’d just emptied after Derry and throws a few mismatched shirts and pants inside without much thought. He takes a car to the airport, gets there just in time to meet Bill and check-in and board the flight.

They spend the next five hours fidgeting out of their minds. Or at least, Richie does. Bill tries to still his movement with a hand on his knee more than once, but it never works for long and eventually, he gives up. Towards the end of the flight, Richie starts feeling sleepy but before he can fall asleep, their plane lands and his agitation comes back.

When they meet with Ben, Beverly, and Mike, it’s four in the morning, none of them has slept a wink, and they can’t seem to string one coherent thought between the five of them. As soon as they come close enough, they’re all over each other. Stan being alive still doesn’t feel real, but none of them can help the happiness that pervades the air, the sheer relief of getting back what feels like a limb of the body that is the Losers club. Some of the parts they’re missing won’t ever come back, Richie can’t help but remember, but for the moment he doesn’t want to think about it. His grief for Eddie is not going to fade away so easily, he’ll have all the time in the world to wallow later.

They find a hotel not too far from the hospital where Stan has been admitted and try to catch at least a couple of hours of sleep before they are allowed to visit him.

Richie falls asleep in his hotel bed fully clothed, too tired to dream of anything at all or if he does, he can’t remember. He doesn’t know if he gets to tell Eddie that Stan is alive, and it almost doesn’t even matter that Eddie probably can’t hear him.

In the morning, Ben knocks on his door just as Richie is putting on his shoes, already showered and dressed to leave.

He’s managed to sleep two full hours but at some point, his brain jumped with the fear that Stan being alive was just a dream, and Richie awoke panting and disoriented. It took him a couple of minutes to remember why he was not in his room at home but when he did, it made up for the harsh awakening.

He grabs his phone and wallet from the bedside table and joins Ben in the narrow carpeted corridor that crosses the entirety of the floor where Bill and his rooms are.

“Beverly called Patricia again about half an hour ago,” Ben informs him, “Visitations start at eight and it takes around fifteen minutes to get to the hospital, so we should be there right on time.”

Richie nods and hums in understanding. He thinks of seeing Stan again and realises he doesn’t know what he looks like now. They haven’t seen each other in twenty-seven years, and he’s afraid of what to expect, of what Stan will expect of them, of him. He knows that when he saw the others at the restaurant back in Derry, he recognised them immediately. They changed, but they are still the same people, and some of the same quirks and gestures carried through time. He expects it will be the same with Stan, but can’t help the nervousness that bubbles up from the low of his stomach.

Richie follows Ben as he steps into the elevator to reach the lobby. As the doors close, he remembers that Bill is on the same floor as him and says, “Wait, we forgot Bill!”

Ben brushes him off. “He’s already downstairs. He’s waiting with Bev and Mike, he was the first one up I think,” he explains, “He and Mike woke us up.”

“Oh, okay,” Richie says, and they make their way down.

Sure enough, Beverly, Mike, and Bill are standing a little ways from the elevator, huddled amongst themselves and chatting with small, hopeful smiles on their faces. Richie sees how they casually touch each other on every other word, recognises in the gesture his own desire to be close to them and already knows Stan will get real tired of their hugs real soon. Well, he’ll pretend to be, will unsuccessfully hide the tiny smile of affection just like he did when they were kids and they got a little too touchy-feely for his taste.

Richie sees Beverly notice them coming closer. She waves and greets him with an enthusiastic “Hey, Richie!” and a tight hug that he reciprocates gladly. He kisses her on top of her beautiful ginger head for good measure and smiles the first full smile he’s been able to manage since they left Derry. When they separate, her hand slides easily into Ben’s as he steps next to her.

“All r-r-ready to go?” asks Bill, looking from Richie to the others, and they nod.

“Should we grab food first?” Mike suggests before they start walking, “I’m kind of starving for breakfast and Stan might be happy to eat something that isn’t hospital food.”

“That’s a good idea,” Beverly agrees excitedly. She takes her phone out and one-handedly looks for the closest bakery, “We can pick something up on the way, there’s a small café a few shops from the hotel.”

They do just that. They buy enough coffee for Stan and Patricia too, grab more cream and sugar packets that could ever be needed to make sure that both will be able to use them to adjust the coffee to their taste. As they choose some baked goods, Richie remembers that Stan used to love strawberry-filled pastry. They buy him three, all filled with strawberry jam but with different shapes in the hope that he still likes them, and finally make their way to the hospital, arms full of way too many sweets-filled paper bags for the seven of them.

They walk there, talking animatedly the entire time. They all feel bubbly and excited, but Richie is getting anxious too.

Stan being alive still feels too good to be true and Richie doesn’t think he’ll truly believe it until Stan is in front of him and within touching distance. Not for the first time, he wishes Eddie was there. If he was, they would be teasing and jabbing each other the entire way, Richie would be distracted enough that the tangled feeling in his stomach wouldn’t be so obvious and pressing. When he thinks that, Richie feels ungrateful for not being happier, for not being able to put Eddie aside for even a moment as he did Stan after they found out he had killed himself - attempted to - while there was still an eldritch horror to fight.

He’s happy, he knows he is. He was always closest to Stan excluding Eddie, so he couldn’t not be even if he tried. Yet, he still feels uneasy, like he is happy _but_.

It brings the image of Eddie’s helpless body in the white void to his mind, and the sliver of a thought almost makes its way into his brain. It’s an inkling of having to do something, of getting Eddie back, but then they’re at the entrance of the hospital, and the thought disappears as flimsily as it came.

Bill asks for the room number and floor, tells the nurse at the reception that they’ve been contacted by Patricia Uris. The ride in the elevator is the longest Richie’s ever been on. A nervous silence has settled over the group. He looks at the others, finds his apprehension reflected in the way Beverly and Ben are holding each other’s hands a little too tight, the way Bill keeps looking between Mike and the elevator buttons, the way Mike is not looking at them at all, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor in front of his shoes. Richie’s hands twitch around nothingness, his skin itching for something he’d rather have no idea of.

The elevator doors ding open and they exit. Bill takes a look at the numbers on the first few doors of the corridor and leads the way to where Stan’s room should be.

Their steps seem to slow the closer they get to the door. Richie’s heartbeat drums so loudly in his ears if any of them were to speak now he surely wouldn’t hear them. They don’t, not one of them says one single word. In fact, they are so quiet that for a moment Richie thinks they might have collectively stopped breathing.

Stan’s door is open. They slip into the room one by one, Bill right ahead. Stan’s eyes get just that bit bigger with each of their presence. He looks at Patricia, seeking confirmation that his eyes aren’t playing a trick on him and when she smiles and nods, he smiles too and looks back at them with wet but happy eyes.

They stand there staring dumbly at each other for a few seconds, all of them unsure of what to do, what to say, and none willing to break the silence first. Richie looks at the bags under Stan’s eyes, at the frown lines between his eyebrows and the tight bandages around his wrists. A pang of sadness blooms in his chest, he looks so tired. But then the fact that Stan is alive, the thought that eventually he’ll get better and will be able to leave this behind him is enough to stop Richie from breaking down right there and then.

Patricia kisses the hand she’s holding and delicately moves away, exiting the room with a quiet “I’ll leave you guys some space,” and closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Stan’s eyes won’t stop jumping from one of them to the other. Richie can tell the exact moment he comes short of one because Stan’s smile falters but doesn’t disappear.

“Where’s Eddie?” he asks. He’s not smiling as brightly as before but still looks hopeful, half expecting to be told that Eddie’s just late, that he’s gonna be there soon. Richie wishes with a lurch in his gut that he could tell Stan just that. He purses his lips instead and lowers his eyes, lets Bill take the lead again.

“A l-l-lot happened, Stan,” he says, “Eddie, he...” Bill can’t finish the sentence.

“Eddie didn’t make it,” Mike says in his stead. His voice is shaky and he looks guilty. Richie has been too absorbed in his own grief to notice any of the others’, but it makes sense. Mike was the one that called them back, it’s not that far-fetched to believe that he might feel at least some responsibility around how things went, especially considering that his ritual failed. But Richie - who feels the most entitled to his sorrow, even if just subconsciously - doesn’t blame him for Eddie’s death, doesn’t blame any of them. If anything, he blames himself. After all, Eddie died for saving him.

Richie looks at Stan’s reaction, sees the slight twitch of his eyes and a muscle jump in the downturned corner of his lips. His smile has gone now, he seems incredulous, in denial. Stan sighs and lowers his eyes, then he looks at Richie. Before Richie can wonder what Stan sees on his face, his gaze moves on.

“How are you feeling?” Beverly’s the one to break the heavy air that has settled on the room. “All things considered.”

“I’m-” Stan tries to reply, swallows visibly and tries again, “I’m so sorry.” His lips lift in a smile, but it’s tight and painful and he’s frowning sadly above it. Before he speaks again, a tear slides down his cheek, shining in the fluorescent hospital lights. Richie’s heart squeezes. “The letters-” he stutters, “I was so selfish,” Stan is fully crying now, his voice breaks with it.

Richie is the first to step ahead, putting a hand on Stan’s shoulder, but it’s barely seconds before the others join too. They huddle around Stan’s bed and put at least one hand each on a part of his body. Ben is touching his right foot, Beverly has settled for his hand, Mike is caressing his right thigh slightly, while Bill has circled to the other side of the bed and keeps his hand firmly on Stan’s left forearm. It’s like a thirty-year-old instinct of being close has reawakened in them. Richie gets the mental image of a fragile shape coming back together as if mended, and it doesn’t feel inaccurate. They found each other once, when they were barely teenagers, and never wanted to separate in the first place. They still slot together perfectly like puzzle pieces, gather in an old and tried pattern no matter how long they forgot.

On Richie’s side, the empty place Eddie left behind has never been more tangible.

After they break their pseudo-hug, they remember the breakfast food they bought. Stan thanks them and bites into one of the strawberry pastries with gusto, huddles over the bag with the other two almost jealously and for a split second, he looks exactly as he did at thirteen. Even though he only manages to eat a few bites, they can all tell he’s moved that they remembered. Richie feels a satisfied sort of pride for getting this little thing right.

At some point, they manage to drag in a couple of chairs from Richie isn’t sure where. Richie takes the one closest to Stan’s left side, while Bill foregoes one entirely and sits pressed to Stan’s right side, leaning against the headboard next to him. Mike and Ben take the empty seats at the foot of the bed, and Beverly settles herself half in Ben’s lap, he doesn’t seem to mind.

After a while, Patricia comes back but doesn’t sit down no matter how much they offer to give up their own seats. They make small talk, the whole lot of them, and Richie is grateful that they have decided to put off the explanation of what happened in Derry for another time.

Around lunchtime, a nurse comes in with Stan’s food and Ben proposes at least a couple of them head out to get food too. It takes some convincing, but Stan finally talks Patricia into going home, at least for a little bit. She has been in the hospital since before Beverly called her when they were still in Derry and has been sleeping in the uncomfortable chair that was the only other place to sit aside from Stan’s bed in his hospital room before they carried in the other equally uncomfortable chairs.

Beverly and Bill volunteer to be the ones to head out at the same time as Patricia so they can buy food for everyone but before they leave, Mike asks to have some time to speak to Stan alone. They agree without a second thought and shut the door behind them as they leave the room.

Bill, Beverly, and Ben start making their way back to the elevator but stop when they notice Richie hasn’t been following.

“Hey, Richie,” Beverly calls gently, “Everything okay?”

Richie forces out a smile and nods. “Yeah, totes peachy,” he answers, “Do you guys mind if I stay? I kinda wanna see if I can find coffee anywhere around here.”

None of them points out that Richie can easily grab a coffee on the way out, they just nod and leave him to it, probably reading the need for a moment alone in his spaced-out expression. Beverly hesitates, but Richie nods at her and she eventually goes too. Richie is feeling restless, now that the initial excitement of seeing Stan alive and well has damped a little, his brain swirls with chaotic thoughts he can’t quite make sense of. He takes a deep breath and goes for the stairs, hoping the slow trek to the lobby will help put some order in his mind.

Richie thinks of Patricia, of how little they know of her, and can’t help but make the association to Bill’s wife. The fact that he can’t remember her name worsens his feeling of how little they know each other’s lives now. Beverly and Ben got together in Derry, so he can safely say that he knows both their partners, but Beverly spent several years of her life with a person they’ll never know anything about. It’s not like Richie wants to make friends with Bev’s abusive ex-husband, but he realises that by not knowing anything about him, he’s also missing out on a big chunk of Beverly’s life that he might never get to hear about. He hopes she finds some solace in talking about it to Ben, that she manages to work through her years of trauma by living a happier life with him and that, for his part, Ben can finally have something more than his work.

They have each other now, all of them together again. Richie feels immense if momentary relief when he remembers that they have time, that they might be able to make up for all the life they’ve missed and that they’ll do anything so they don’t lose contact again.

He has a flash of Eddie’s suitcases, put aside and shut in his messy room, and thinks of Myra. The bitter taste the memory of her brings to his mouth makes him give up his search for a coffee machine. Eddie won’t get to work through that particular issue, Richie catches himself thinking, and mentally chastises himself for the presumption of assuming he knows what was going on there. He doesn’t. Richie has no idea how they loved each other, if Eddie ever realised how much she looks like his mother. He made an assumption about the kind of woman she is just because of the resemblance but he doesn’t know her, he won’t get to because Eddie died and Richie won’t get to understand why Eddie chose her in the first place.

He feels so incredibly stupid, so angry at himself for letting his unrequited feelings paint a picture of something that he has no right to judge. He’s been deluding himself that he has any say at all in the matter just because he can’t let go of a feeling that was hidden for thirty years and has no reason to believe was reciprocated, but the Eddie he keeps seeing in his white dreams isn’t real, no matter how much Richie wants to hope he might get a second chance if he just believes enough. His hand twitches again, tightens around the impression of Eddie’s pulseless wrist in his palm, and closes around nothing at all.

He tries to shake away his thoughts, makes his way back to Stan’s room, but the saltiness just won’t go away, no matter how hard he swallows around his dry mouth.

He leans on the wall next to the door and hears Mike's faint voice. He tries to shut out the noise, not wanting to intrude on the moment. He doesn't have to try hard, though, neither Stan nor Mike is speaking loud enough to make out the words. 

He pulls out his phone and scrolls through the group chat where Beverly has asked them if they have any preferences for lunch, shoots back a quick ' _I'm good w/ anything_ ' and lets the screen go black. His mind can't help but return to the white void and Richie feels like there's something right out of reach that he can't quite understand. He tries picturing the shape of the turtle by the few details he has seen of it, but they're not enough to paint a full picture, his brain just doesn't seem to be able to fill in the gaps, like he isn't allowed to just yet.

He closes his eyes and tries harder.

When he thinks of the few pieces he has actually seen, they come to memory easily. He can’t quite nail the swooshing noise that surrounds him every time he’s there, but the rippling movement of the space all around him is easy to call back. The big blue eye is just as clear in his mind, it resplends around his brain so brightly that he has to move on. The fins and shell are harder to pin down. He thinks he saw something like claws, the rugged, irregular edge of a carapace, but he never quite looked at them properly enough and he can’t fill in the blanks, though he does try. When he concentrates too hard on the details, his mind jumps to Eddie’s healed body instead.

Richie keeps thinking of the turtle as an entity separate from himself, but he knows it must be his own subconscious conceiving it. There is no reasonable explanation for its apparition aside from it being a dream and yet when he tells himself that, something in him doesn’t accept it as truth.

His train of thought is interrupted by the muted ping of the elevator and the return of Ben, Beverly, and Bill.

They make their way over to him, each carrying one small plastic bag, far less full than the ones they’d gotten at breakfast. “We got veggie wraps!” Ben announces, smiling and lifting the bag slightly. Richie smiles back, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“D-d-do you think they’re done in there?” Bill asks him, pointing to Stan’s door with his free hand.

Richie strains to listen for Mike’s voice, can’t hear it anymore. “I’m not sure, but they might be,” he tells Bill.

Bill knocks on the closed door and when Stan’s quiet “Come in” sounds from the other side, he opens it and makes his way inside, announcing the food again. Ben follows after him.

Richie steps away from the wall, waiting for Beverly to go in first. When she doesn’t, Ben turns to look at her. She passes him the bag and gives him a small smile and nod to go ahead before pulling the door closed behind him. Then, she turns to Richie and he freezes, feeling exposed under her gaze.

“Richie,” she starts, looks straight into his face. “I- You-” she tries, takes a deep breath and shakes her head slightly. Finally, she says, “I- wanted to ask how you’re doing.”

Richie grits his teeth and swallows hard, hands going into the pockets of his jacket instinctively. _There we go_ , he thinks, he’s been expecting this conversation ever since they were in Derry. At first, he considers lying, brushing her off and trying everything he can to cut the conversation short, but he doesn’t particularly want to, and he doesn’t think Beverly’s going to give up that easily. He sighs and unclenches his jaw, looks down and rubs at his forehead before looking back at her and finally resigning himself to being honest. “Not- not great, Bev,” he pushes out.

Her expression goes soft and sad. She reaches one hand and rests it gently on his forearm, doesn’t say anything for several seconds. Richie feels himself starting to tear up under her understanding gaze and a tear makes its way down his cheek. He purses his lips hard, and Beverly speaks again. “He was so brave, Richie,” she says, “and he saved you. He wouldn’t-” she stumbles, Richie can tell she’s not sure of her words, “He wouldn’t have done any different.”

A sob wretches out of his throat and Richie closes his eyes. His lips tremble so hard they won’t bend around words. His throat goes tight and his breath stutters, he can feel the beginnings of a panic attack. His chest throbs with it and Richie realises the vice around his lungs is pure, unadulterated guilt.

Beverly steps closer, squeezes his forearm and puts her other hand on his cheek. Her hands are kind and hot on his skin. She hushes him gently, pulls his face into her neck and Richie goes easily, clinging to her waist and weeping into her shoulder. Her touch on him seems to ease the pressure of his breath, but the tears don’t stop coming, wrecking and shaking his whole body. She returns the hug, strokes his back, brushes gently at the short curls at the nape of his neck.

It takes a while before Richie realises he’s been speaking, mumbled and quivery. “I didn’t want him to, Bev. I didn’t want him to,” he repeats once, twice, so many times that the words blend into each other until they become an incomprehensible babble and die out.

“I know, honey, I know,” she croons and keeps holding him. Her voice is teary too.

When he finally stops shaking, Richie pulls back with a sniff. Beverly’s hands linger for a moment longer before letting him go. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes dry, cleans the tear-stained lenses with the hem of his shirt before putting them back on.

“Richie,” Beverly says gently, takes one of his hands into hers and waits for him to look at her before she continues, “I didn’t know.” Her words are barely more than a whisper.

At first, Richie isn’t sure what she’s talking about, but then he gets it.

“I didn’t see it,” Beverly explains, “in the deadlights. I didn’t see Eddie die. I didn’t know,” she repeats again, ruefully.

Richie shakes his head, “No, Bev, it’s-” he tries to reassure her, but she interrupts him.

“I would have done something,” her tone is urgent, she squeezes his hand almost painfully. “I swear, Richie, I would have. I should have-” she stumbles over the words. Her eyes are wet and glossy with unshed tears, she swallows them down and stammers out a small-sounding “Stan” and Richie’s the one to hug first this time.

He lets her cling to him, strokes back her hair and shakes his head against hers again, hoping that she’ll understand he doesn’t blame her, that he’s sure Stan doesn’t either.

She steps back after a few seconds and lets him go. Richie kisses her cheek and tries as hard as he can to smile at her reassuringly. She smiles back, points behind her to the door to Stan’s room and asks him “Ready to go in?”

They leave the door open behind them when they enter Stan's room again. 

The air inside is still heavy, Bill has an arm around Mike's shoulders, Ben flanking him on the other side while Stan directs a reassuring smile his way. Mike, for his part, is surreptitiously rubbing away the wetness on his cheeks. Richie makes sure to squeeze his forearm on his way to Stan's side, hoping it's enough to let him know he's there too, that things are okay between them.

They stay there for several hours. At some point, Patricia calls Beverly’s phone and asks to speak to Stan who reassures her that he’s alright, that she should rest some more and he’ll see her later that night. Stan tries more than once to convince her to sleep at home, take advantage of them being there to get a comfortable night’s rest, but she’s immovable and promises she’ll be back before visiting hours end to stay the night with him.

The afternoon goes by fast, they try to catch up on what they can, to tell each other what their lives are like now. Richie gets teased more than once for being somewhat of a celebrity, even more when they tell Stan that he doesn’t write his own jokes. Richie laughs along, but he’s weirdly subdued about it, doesn’t tell them that his little stunt after Mike called him might have cost him his career.

Sometimes the conversation quiets down, leaving a sombre atmosphere to fill the room in its stead and it is then that Richie can tell everyone feels Eddie’s absence almost as much as he does. In one of those moments, Beverly breaks the silence and shily asks for a minute alone with Stan. They give them space, make themselves scarce and look for the coffee that Richie hadn’t ended up drinking when they’d gone for lunch.

When they reconvene in Stan’s room, visitations are almost about over and even though they have to leave for the night, none of them feels like going back to their hotel rooms yet. They decide to go for drinks, promise Stan they’ll do it again as soon as he gets discharged. They make their way out, determined to get the sterile smell of the hospital off of them with a quick shower, but Richie hangs back when Stan asks him to stay a little longer and he guesses that must mean it’s his turn for a heart to heart. Richie feels anxiety bubble up in his chest, his stomach squeezes painfully, but he forces out a smile to the others as they exit the room and close the door behind them.

He approaches Stan’s bed and sits above the covers by the side of his thighs facing him, one leg dangling to the floor. “What’s up, Urine?” he tries for levity, Stan grimaces at the childish nickname. Richie already knows their talk is going to be anything but light, but never let it be said that he initiates a serious conversation.

“I’m sorry, Richie,” Stan looks at him from his place against the pillows, “If I’d been there, Eddie might still be alive.”

Richie gulps and his feigned smile falls, he wasn’t expecting Stan to just go for it. He doesn’t know what to say.

Stan sighs, hunches his shoulders and looks down at his hands in his lap. Richie looks too, but only sees the bandages around his wrists. “I meant it,” Stan speaks again, voice quieter than before, “What I did was selfish, it put you all in danger and hurt Patricia.”

Richie shakes his head even though Stan isn’t looking at him. When he talks, his voice is strangled. “You can’t be sure of that, Stan,” he says, “You can’t know what would have happened.” Richie doesn’t want to entertain the possibility, can’t if he wants to keep his sanity. When he lifts his eyes, Stan is looking back at him and his eyes are wet.

“It was still unfair,” he insists, “leaving you those letters, making Mike feel responsible.”

“Stan, we can’t possibly blame you,” Richie repeats and means it. “You tried to kill yourself, you were terrified, we all were.”

“But none of you ran away. You went back,” Stan insists, “and I wasn’t there, and Eddie paid for it.”

“You don’t-” Richie tries, fails for words and sighs. “No...” He swallows, leans in and takes one of Stan’s wrists in his hand and squeezes instinctively. Stan winces slightly and Richie immediately lets up, remembering the wounds, but doesn’t let go. “Eddie wasn’t your fault,” Richie believes it, just as much as he believes that hadn’t it been for him being caught in the deadlights, for convincing Eddie to go with them into It’s lair in the first place, Eddie would still be alive.

Stan turns his wrist in Richie’s loose hold, squeezes Richie’s wrist back in an intimate sort of handshake and doesn’t say anything else, but looks at Richie as if he knows exactly what he’s thinking. They don’t talk about it any more, but they stay like that for a while, breathing in sync.

Richie only leaves Stan’s bed when Patricia comes back. Before he meets the other Losers at the hotel bar, he goes back to the empty room on the same floor as Bill's. Without the urgency to get to Stan that he’d felt in the morning, he finally has time to look around at the bad-taste sheets and the tacky wallpaper and can’t help but think of the room he returned to in the Derry Townhouse after It. They don’t look anything alike, but the feeling of being trapped is the same. Richie thinks that Eddie would have cried when he found out Stan was alive and Richie wishes he could have given him at least that one happiness as he died.

Not for the first time that week, he wishes their places were reversed.

The thought of Eddie getting a second chance just as Stan has can’t help but pop into his mind, but Richie stamps it down before it can take root. There’s no point in hoping when their situations are so different. Stan’s words come back to him then. He couldn't have dwelled on the possibility when Stan said it, but Richie doesn't have a certain answer either way.

There are so many things that could have gone differently when they fought It. He thinks of Mike's ritual, wonders if being prepared for the possibility of it failing would have made for a stronger chance of all of them making it out alive. What if he and Eddie had left when they said they would? Would Beverly's visions have come true as they did for Stan? But then again, Beverly hadn't known Stan would survive.

Most of all, Richie wonders if Eddie would have lived if he hadn't saved Richie and if he could have seen It coming and pushed Eddie out of the way before the claw dove for him.

Richie doesn't know, isn't sure he wants to when the answer seems so obvious. He washes the what-ifs away under the weak water pressure of the hotel shower and tries to think of the others waiting for him, remembers Eddie's body lying in wait in the white void instead and hopes he'll see him again the next time he falls asleep.

The other Losers are waiting for Richie at the hotel bar on the ground floor. When Richie joins them, they’re already sitting at a round table nested in a more secluded area of the place. There are three empty seats on the open side of it and Richie sits at the one next to Bill, leaving the other two chairs between him and Ben. Bill welcomes him with a pat on the back and the others are an off-key choir of “Heyyyy Richie.” They seem to already have ordered a couple of drinks each, and Richie signals a waiter so he can catch up.

Richie basks in the giddy air they radiate. Every two or three words someone will mention Stan and a small toast will ensue, followed by more laughter and chatter.

Richie knows he’s being quieter than usual, but he hasn’t felt this calm in longer than he can remember and is just happy to lean back and watch the others bicker and joke, one arm thrown over the back of the empty chair next to him. He’s so distracted, he doesn’t even realise his hand has been clenching and unclenching around the empty air of it.

A couple of hours pass in the same fashion, more drinks are ordered and consumed and when their buzz really gets going, Beverly proposes they ask for whatever refreshments the bar can provide and to their tipsy minds, it is just about the best idea any of them has ever had.

About three hours into their little celebration, when most of the other patrons have long drifted away and back to their own rooms, a lull falls over the table, the only conversations left intimate and soft. Beverly is leaning heavily into Ben and facing Mike, mouthing to him something that Richie can’t hear from where he’s sitting. Ben, for his part, is looking at Bill with half-lidded and sleepy eyes, nodding along to whatever Bill is telling him like he’s not really listening. Richie’s hand closes around empty air again, and this time he realises he’s been searching for a familiar shoulder all night. He sighs, swallows painfully around a mouthful of his half-finished drink and closes his eyes, bracing for what he’s about to do.

He clears his throat and calls “Hey, guys.” They fall silent almost instantly, and Richie can feel their full attention on him even though he’s looking at the tabletop, unable to lift his eyes and face them. When he doesn’t speak, they don’t rush him, wait for him to breathe in again and return their gazes. His mouth is suddenly dry and the grip he has around his glass is almost painful. He’s clutching it so tightly that if he held it any tighter it would surely shatter in his palm, the fist of his other hand around nothingness is almost as strong. When Richie swallows again, his throat clicks, and it’s that noise that finally spurs him on. 

“I think I might be gay,” he says so quietly that for a second he’s afraid they won't hear him.

Bill reaches a hand and circles his wrist gently, rubbing at his pulse point until his unforgiving grip around the glass comes loose. Richie looks at his face and Bill smiles warmly. “Thanks for telling us, Rich,” he says with the kindest voice Richie has ever heard leave his mouth, he doesn't stutter.

The next to speak is Beverly. She just about launches herself across the table, almost sending some of their glasses shattering to the floor in her haste. She wraps her arms around Richie’s neck and knocks the wind out of him. He laughs into her shoulder as she tells him she’s proud of him. Richie doesn’t cry, but comes as close to it as he possibly can. Ben reaches over the empty seats and squeezes his shoulder, smiles at him sweetly and lets him go with a gentle pat to his upper arm. On Bill’s other side, Mike lifts his glass to Richie and nods, he doesn’t say anything but makes sure to look Richie straight into his eyes as he smiles at him.

Richie preens under the affection. Just for a moment, he contemplates telling them about Eddie, about being in love with him since they were kids, but thinks better of it and doesn’t say anything at all. 

He can’t help being grateful when the conversation finally moves on. He thinks of telling Stan first thing in the morning and instinctively looks to his left where Eddie would be if he was still alive. He surreptitiously rubs away the wetness that gathers in his eyes at the absence and downs the last drops of his drink, dwells on the burn it leaves behind instead of asking himself how Eddie would have reacted.

Not much later, when everyone is well and thoroughly on their way to a drunken sleep, they pay and go for the elevator ride to their rooms. Mike gets off first, then Ben and Beverly. Richie and Bill make their way through the corridor to their rooms together and Richie bids Bill goodnight who hugs him tightly before letting him walk further along to his own room.

He opens the door blindly and makes a beeline for the bed, collapsing face-first into the stale-smelling duvet. He barely manages to rid himself of his clothes before climbing under the covers and passing out still wearing his glasses and the lamp on the bedside table turned on.

Richie’s body sinks through the mattress, comes out the other side on the cold empty ground of the white nothingness. He feels the light through his closed eyelids even before he sees the space ripple around him and Eddie’s unmoving body lying next to him.

For the first time since visiting this place, Richie feels lethargic. The combined weight of the flight the night before, of the day filled with emotional talks, and their little alcohol-imbued celebration carries with him into the suspended room and it takes Richie some manoeuvering before he manages to get to his feet. He looks at the space, searching for the hint of a shape. The air swooshes loudly around him, louder than usual, and Richie thinks he sees the jagged edge of a shell again, the impression of blunt nails pushing themselves through the atmosphere.

He glimpses the tiny black dot in the distance, blinks quickly to try and make his eyes focus on it but a completely different image slips into his mind instead. He gets the sudden vision of a turtle, can see it in its entirety even though he still perceives that he could never truly grasp its size if not through imagination. Its blue eyes look exactly like the one that has observed Richie the other times he’s visited the void, and the shell is huge and sturdy, grooved in with dark twisted symbols the colour of soil that he can’t read nor understand. As soon as he opens his eyes, however, the image disappears, and all Richie’s left with is the knowledge of having seen it.

Richie looks at Eddie then, stares at his chest that moves with false breathing and wonders if he’s finally going to find a heartbeat when he inevitably checks for it. “Hey, Eds,” he whispers and sits down by his side, takes Eddie’s wrist and finds nothing instead.

He takes a couple of deep, shaky breaths, tries to let go of his disappointment as he breathes out, and mostly fails.

Richie slides his hand into Eddie’s, intertwines their fingers and rubs his thumb back and forth across the back of Eddie’s hand. “Stan is going to be okay,” he tells Eddie, even though he won’t hear it. “He asked about you,” he continues after a pause, “I couldn’t say a word.” Richie sighs, lifts his glasses into his hair and hides his face in his free hand.

The air swooshes, fills the echoing silence left by Richie’s words.

“He thinks you might have lived,” his voice is barely a murmur into his own hand, “if he’d come back, too.” He pulls his glasses back on his nose and looks down at Eddie’s hand in his, takes it in both hands and traces the patterns on his palm. “Would you-” he starts, the words lodge against his tongue and don’t come out. He tries again, “Would you still be alive if I’d died instead?” The question hangs in the air, unanswered, and eventually disappears into the nothingness.

Richie keeps caressing Eddie’s hand, looks at his blank face once and away again. The next time he speaks, he doesn’t hesitate. “I would take your place if I could. I would give my life if it meant you’d get yours back.” He squeezes Eddie’s hand in his, grips his wrist and makes a silent promise for his missing heartbeat.

Richie wakes up, quite expectedly, mildly nauseous and with a pounding headache.

He unsticks his face from the gross drool patch he’s left on the pillow while he slept and checks his phone. The others haven’t written in the group text yet, so Richie assumes they’re still sleeping, but it is almost time for hospital visitations to start and against all survival instincts, Richie makes himself get up and dressed to go to Stan, shoots the Losers a text to let them know they'll find him there. 

He feels like shit rolled over, can't remember the last time he's had a hangover so bad and wonders briefly if it might be a lasting consequence of defeating an alien murder clown. Deep down he knows it's just because he's a forty-years-old comedian with a probably failing liver who drank like a teenager on his first bender.

He rummages through his bag for something even remotely resembling an aspirin but comes away empty-handed, and hopes caffeine will help with his unrelenting headache instead. 

On the way to the hospital, Richie grabs three coffees for Stan, Patricia, and him. He downs his as soon as he’s out the door of the café and immediately goes back for more, savouring the second one on the way.

When he gets to his room, Stan is already awake, talking gently to his wife with a small smile. They’re holding hands.

Richie clears his throat from the door, they look up at him and let go. He almost regrets interrupting the moment but seeing Stan up and well again won’t ever get old after all they’ve been through. _Small mercies_ , he thinks, and almost stops being bothered by his hangover.

Patricia greets him with a hug and thanks him for the coffee. When she’s done drinking, she takes advantage of him being there to go back home and get refreshed after her night in the hospital. She gathers her things quickly and leaves the door ajar behind her, going with a small wave.

As soon as she’s out the door, Stan gives him an unimpressed once-over and says, “You look like ass.”

Richie huffs out a laugh, tries to stifle it but fails. “Why, Stanley, you always say the sweetest things,” he replies, sitting down on the empty chair by Stan’s bed.

“Serves you right for going out to party while I’m still stuck in here,” he bounces back with an exaggeratedly offended expression and takes a drink of his coffee.

“Should have thought about that before trying to kill yourself instead of facing the physical embodiment of your childhood fears,” Richie retorts without thinking, regrets it immediately and freezes mid-sip.

Stan laughs, though. “Beep, beep, Trashmouth,” he says, and Richie slumps in relief.

He swishes the last dregs of coffee in his cup and smiles. “Yeah, sorry,” he apologises, “That was a bit much even for me.”

Stan keeps drinking, unbothered. Eventually, he asks, “So, what _did_ you guys do? Anything at all aside for drinking until you passed out?”

“Aw, Stan,” Richie drawls, “We talked about you and cried that you weren’t there the entire time.” Stan seems tempted to throw his almost empty cup at Richie’s head, rolls his eyes instead. “Nah, man,” Richie replies seriously this time, “We mostly drank and wasted time.” He swallows his last mouthful of coffee and speaks again, “Actually, I think we got real emotional at some point, you would have been all up in that.”

Stan hums, closes both hands around his warm cup. “What about?” he asks.

Richie clamps one hand around his own cup, leaves a dent in it and concentrates on the spot so he won’t have to look at Stan’s face. “Stan, I-” he hesitates, swallows around the lump in his throat and tries again, “I think I’m gay.” He lifts his eyes and waits for Stan’s reaction.

Stan smiles, puts his cup on the small table on the side of his bed and leans over to take Richie’s hand. “Thanks for trusting me with this, Richie,” he says, and squeezes his fingers gently.

Richie returns it hesitantly before slipping out of his touch. He stands and leaves his cup next to Stan’s, sits down on the empty stripe of bed next to him. Stan scoots over to make more space and Richie leans with his back against the headboard, their shoulders pressed against each other.

They don’t speak for a while. Stan lets his head fall to Richie’s shoulder, his neat curls tickling Richie’s neck delicately. He takes a deep breath and says, “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Richie goes rigid. Stan takes his wrist and rubs the skin there with his thumb, trying to calm him down. It helps a little.

“I love him, Stan,” Richie says softly, the words are shaky on his lips, “I’m in love with him, and he’s gone.”

Stan lifts his head and turns to look at him, doesn’t let go of his wrist. When Richie looks back, he can see that Stan’s eyes have gone watery, but he doesn’t seem surprised. Richie blinks and tears slide down his cheeks. “How did you know?” he asks Stan.

“I didn’t.” Stan shakes his head and lies back down. “I just...” he trails off, shrugs his shoulders slightly against Richie's. “It was never Richie or Eddie,” he tries to explain, “It was always Richie _and_ Eddie. I didn’t know back then, but I guess it just-” he pauses, considers his words, “It makes sense. It seems right.”

Richie nods, somehow gets it. He doesn’t respond, leans his head on top of Stan’s on his shoulder and lets the tears flow silently. Eventually, they dry on his skin.

“Were you going to tell him,” Stan breaks the silence to ask, “after everything was over?”

Richie wishes he didn’t, but he already knows the answer, doesn’t have to think about it before he replies. “No, never,” he says simply, like there is no other answer he could give. Richie is expecting Stan to say something back, to call him a coward or say that he should have told Eddie even if he didn’t think it was reciprocated. Instead, Stan stays quiet.

They sit like that for a while. At some point, Richie notices that Stan has drifted off, tries to stay as still as he can so as not to wake him. He ends up dozing too, but is awake when the others join them some half-hour later.

Despite all of them still being hangover to varying degrees, they’re just as excited and noisy to be together as they were the previous day, possibly more if the nurse coming in to tell them to lower their voices more than once is anything to go by. At lunchtime, it’s Richie and Mike’s turn to go out to pick up food for everyone and they stop at a small Japanese takeaway place Mike saw while looking up the hospital address when they got to Atlanta. When they get back, Richie’s place next to Stan is occupied by Ben and for the rest of the day they all take turns to sit there whenever someone leaves to go to the bathroom.

Richie feels light. The anxiety he’d felt before coming out is long gone and he feels a bit silly for ever having feared his friends’ reactions. He doesn’t regret telling Stan about Eddie either, thinks he will be able to tell the others too, not now but eventually, suspects that most of them will be just as unsurprised as Stan was. When Patricia comes back, she slides into their rhythm easily, Richie can tell that she makes Stan happy and that he does the same for her. He’s relieved by the thought that even when they were apart, Stan had someone who loved him. He can’t help but hope, regardless of what Richie might think of her, that Eddie’s wife was the same for him.

Even with the others around him talking and laughing, sometimes Richie still gets distracted. His eyes will fix on the floor and gloss over for a couple of seconds, his mind will go to Eddie, and it’ll take him just a little too long to tune back in, to go back to smiling and joking along.

When the time comes for them to leave, they promise Stan to be back the next day and make plans to reconvene in Beverly and Ben’s room that night - the biggest one -, opting out of another alcohol-filled gathering. They grab dinner at an Indian restaurant on the way there and spend the night cuddled all over each other, only half-watching the shitty movie playing on the hotel TV channel.

They fall asleep like that, bent awkwardly and curled around one another in a bed that is far too small for five grown adults. Before he closes his eyes, Richie has the passing thought that getting up the next day will be hell on his back, but couldn’t possibly care less as safe as he’s feeling with every single one of his limbs touching someone else’s.

He falls into a deep, heavy sleep, descends into darkness before he’s engulfed by the ever familiar whiteness of his unconsciousness and finds Eddie waiting for him, as still as he always is.

Richie sits next to him hip to hip. Takes his wrist as he always does and is so used to not finding a heartbeat there, that for a moment he thinks he won’t be disappointed, but he’s wrong. He scoots closer to Eddie’s waist, lets his forearm fall into his lap and reaches a hand to Eddie’s face, touching his bandaged cheek. The fabric is as spotless as ever and he pulls at the tape hesitantly, making up his mind to check the skin underneath just as he’s doing it. As he suspected, the wound is healed and scarred, all that remains a thin pink line on Eddie’s pale skin. He drops the gauze to the white shadowless floor, doesn’t notice it disappear as it touches emptiness, too concentrated on Eddie’s expressionless face.

He traces the scar with his thumb, brushes his fingertips to the short hair that frames Eddie’s ear and cheekbone. His eyes sting, his teeth grit painfully in his mouth, but he can’t cry.

Richie looks, tries to commit the line of Eddie’s nose to his memory, the thick of his eyebrows, the slope of his lips. He watches like he would never be able to do if Eddie was awake and hopes he’ll get to do it for a lot longer, the fear that he won’t be able to find this place anymore when he falls asleep, that he only has a little time left with Eddie, is an unwavering weight in the pit of his stomach.

He slides his thumb to the corner of Eddie’s mouth, retracts it immediately when he feels the softness of his lips, doesn’t let himself linger. He sighs, leans his ear on Eddie’s chest and hears nothing but the soft rustle of his t-shirt as his lungs fill with false breaths, stays there curled around his body while he speaks. “You were coming out of a pretty bad flu,” he tells Eddie, doesn’t explain the jumbled mess of his memories that still feel like they just happened, “none of us had any idea how you’d managed to convince your mom to let you out of the house.” He laughs bitterly and continues, “You came out the door wrapped in more scarves than I could count and we were already on our bikes on the other side of the road.” Richie closes his eyes, tries remembering the picture Eddie made, his face almost completely hidden behind what looked like miles of wool wrapped around his neck, the puffy jacket that went almost to the tips of his fingers. Richie remembers perfectly the nights he spent thinking of how funny he’d looked, smiling to himself against his pillow, feels almost embarrassed for how bad he had it back then but also knows he hasn’t been as happy ever since.

He opens his eyes and looks at the untarnished skin of Eddie’s chest under his cheek. The memories are messy, and it takes him a minute to make order in his head. “You looked back at your mom inside the house,” he resumes, “It must have been the year she took you out of gym class, because you were always complaining about how bored you were.” The old anger he’d felt when he’d found out resurfaces, leaves a salty taste in his mouth. “You looked at her,” he repeats, “and just sprinted at us like a wild animal getting out of a cage. She shouted at you and you started laughing, and we were screaming your name and laughing too, even Stan.” Richie smiles wetly, thinks he can hear Eddie’s thrilling laugh resound in the empty air of the void, swooshing into his ears on Maturin’s ripples. “I had no idea back then, we were so fucking young,” he sobs drily, “but after It, I finally got it. I watched It vomit black goo with your face and every time I thought of your laugh after that, your teeth were stained black. I was so mad,” he chokes out, “that It took that memory from me, and then I finally understood why.”

He's still lying on Eddie’s chest breathing shakily what feels like hours later. He stopped talking long ago, feels the exhaustion of coming out to his friends and the talk with Stan catch up to him.

For the first time since finding Eddie, he has the courage to move him. He lets go of his arm, moves it gently from his lap and sits up. He slides his hands under Eddie’s back, takes hold of his torso carefully and lifts him onto his thighs, tucking the back of Eddie’s head into his elbow when it slides down at an uncomfortable angle towards the floor.

He's brushing back Eddie's already perfectly pristine hair absentmindedly when Maturin speaks.

Richie hears its voice before he sees its big watery eye swim closer. "Richie Tozier," it calls in its usual unharried tone, "It's time to go."

Richie’s stomach lurches. He knows what Maturin's talking about even without having to ask. "What's the catch?" he demands, but he knows that whatever the cost will be, he'll give it. When he told Eddie he would take his place if it meant he would get to live, he knew Eddie couldn't hear him, but hadn't meant it any less.

Instead of answering, Maturin says, "What will you give?"

Richie looks down at Eddie in his arms. Looks into his motionless, expressionless face and the answer is _anything_ , he would give anything to see him alight with life again. Before he can tell Maturin just that, that he'll give up everything, he'll give his life, assumes that is indeed what the turtle wants, Eddie's mouth opens in a startled gasp and real breath finally fills his chest again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is very important to me that you all know that the one and only reason the infamous The Cure album has been included in this fic is so I could give a shout out to one of, if not my number one favourite Reddie fic which you can find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928407/) and should absolutely take the time to read like I have - several times. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this far and stay tuned for the next chapter. Won't take long!  
> Also feel free to find me on Tumblr [under the same name](https://mushiemadarame.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Encore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie is looming over him, he's moving his mouth and his expression is triumphant. Richie can't hear him, the booming sound of Maturin's voice still rings in his ears with the unanswered question, but he doesn't need to hear Eddie's voice to know what he's saying. He remembers what's about to happen with startling clarity and knows immediately what he needs to do.

The room disappears around them, the overwhelming whiteness dissipating into stone and dirt, and Richie finds himself lying with his back against the floor of It's cavernous lair.

Eddie is looming over him, he's moving his mouth and his expression is triumphant. Richie can't hear him, the booming sound of Maturin's voice still rings in his ears with the unanswered question, but he doesn't need to hear Eddie's voice to know what he's saying. He remembers what's about to happen with startling clarity and knows immediately what he needs to do.

He grabs Eddie's shoulders and pushes hard, rolling them over. Eddie yelps. It's claw rams into the ground where they were just lying, and he gasps, terror in his eyes. Then It pulls away with a grating motion, Its claw leaves a trail of dust and rubble into the crevices of the ground.

Richie is not startled by the sound, keeps looking into Eddie's face underneath him. He tries to commit every inch of it to memory, full of life and light. Something tells him he doesn't have long.

Kneeling over him at arm's length - like he's done so many times before in the white void over his lifeless body -, he takes Eddie's cheek into his palm and immediately Eddie's attention focuses on him. Eddie looks from one of his eyes to the other, confused and disoriented.

"I'm sorry, Eds," Richie says, and the smile on his face is genuine if a little sad, "but it's going to be okay."

Eddie opens his mouth, a question on his lips, but he doesn’t have time to formulate it because then, as expected, it comes. The next time It's tentacle swings for them, it comes from the side. It swooshes through the air and pierces Richie's waist fiercely, passes him through from flank to flank and the pain is sharp as it breaks through skin and guts.

" _NO!_ " Eddie's blood-curdling scream reverberates around them, splitting the air and ricocheting against the stone walls.

It’s tentacle retracts, pulls away with a wet squelch and leaves a hole where Richie’s internal organs should be, the only thing keeping him from flying through the air is Eddie’s grip on his forearms. He falls to the side, half on top of Eddie, and bleeds through their clothes.

Richie wheezes as blood starts filling his throat and mouth, tries to push himself on his hands and slips on the pool of redness gathering beneath them. Eddie grabs him, one hand around his shoulders, the other beneath his armpits, and pulls him back as Pennywise strikes the ground at their feet. He sees Bill run from the side, jumping and shaking his arms, trying to distract the clown as Eddie drags him to relative safety in an alcove behind a tall boulder.

Eddie lays Richie down with a gentleness Richie can’t remember ever experiencing from him. He remembers a tiny 13-year-old chopping the air with his hands to make a point, shaking with the rasps of his asthma that was really just anxiety and pushing and pulling each other in the only way they thought they were allowed to touch back then. But he always knew Eddie was capable of tenderness, he saw it in the way he would curl around his friends while they slept, in the touches, in the unapologetic hugs they would share, but he forgot those too.

When Eddie takes his face in his hands, patting his cheek gently to keep him awake, Richie realizes he's already drifting and wonders how much time they have left.

"Hey, hey, Richie, come on, keep your eyes open," Eddie pleads.

Richie looks at him and smiles, blood dribbles from between his teeth hot and thick. He absently wonders if the rock he's lying on is the same where he left Eddie a week ago, but forgets the thought quickly: it doesn't matter, on this side of reality Eddie never died.

"So this is what it felt like, huh," he croaks out. Eddie doesn't answer, keeps looking into his face with a worried crease between his eyebrows. Richie lifts his hand to smooth it out, but he's losing so much blood and the strain is too much, all he manages to do is land his hand on Eddie's wounded cheek, Eddie flinches slightly but doesn't look away. He should have asked the turtle to let him go back far enough to prevent that from happening, he guesses now's too late to submit a formal complaint.

"It's okay, Eddie," he tries to reassure him, "It's gonna be okay."

"Of course it is, you stupid dickbag." Richie almost laughs. Despite the words, he can see that Eddie is crying. "We're gonna get you out of here, Richie," Eddie insists, "You're gonna be okay." He chokes on the last word and a sob escapes from his chest.

Eddie buries his head into Richie's neck and cries against his skin. Richie lets his hand slide to his nape and feels Eddie's hair brush against his fingertips. He really hopes he'll get to remember the feeling somehow.

Richie tries with all he has to keep his eyes open. He wants to look at Eddie, get his fill of him before he won’t be able to anymore but his blinks get slower and slower. In some remote part of his brain, Richie knows that very soon it won’t matter, that the absence will disappear with him and that this is it, there is nothing else after this. It should be comforting, he wonders why he feels so sad.

It calls for them as the other Losers join in the alcove. Richie takes his eyes away from Eddie just long enough to look at their faces. They’re dirty and tired, Richie remembers how hopeless he felt when Eddie was in his place.

Beverly kneels next to him, brushes his hair back from his forehead and Richie lets his head loll to the side to look at her through the slits of his droopy eyes, smiles dopily, barely still awake. She returns it sadly, small and resigned, her hand trembles on the skin of his cheek but he doesn’t feel it. All he can feel is Eddie’s grip on his upper arms, strong and desperate through the layers of fabric. When he tries to squeeze his fingers against the skin of Eddie’s neck, Richie finds that he can’t.

“What are we going to do?” Ben asks, to no one in particular.

They turn to Mike, he furrows his brows and opens his mouth to say something. When no words come out, he shakes his head and looks away, a hand covering his face.

“Eds,” Richie tries to say, it comes out low and mumbled.

Eddie hushes him softly, Beverly takes her hand away and stands up. Eddie’s hands take her place, he holds up Richie’s chin, rubs away a spot of dirt above Richie’s right eyebrow. His lips tremble when he shushes Richie again.

“Eddie,” he repeats, and it works this time. “The leper,” he says only, remembering what Eddie told them as he died and hoping that Eddie will understand.

“Wha-” Eddie starts, then the realisation hits him. “I- I managed to choke it, I almost killed it,” he says, “I had my hands around its neck and I could feel it choking.”

Mike repeats what he said the first time around, talks about shapes and rules, Richie isn’t listening anymore, not to Beverly either, doesn’t care to, he’s not gonna be part of it this time. After their plan is devised, Ben and Mike have to pull Eddie off him to take Richie. They make their way out of the other side of the alcove, get ready to fight It. As soon as they put him down, Eddie is on him again.

Richie tries to smile at him, can’t feel the muscles of his face move with the effort. “Hey, Eds,” he calls as the others get out of their hiding place and attempt to draw It to the small entrance of the lair.

Eddie is already looking at him, hasn’t stopped for even a second. “What is it, Richie?” he asks softly, his brows are furrowed and his eyes watery. Richie hasn't heard his name in Eddie's mouth in almost thirty years and it makes him just as giddy as it used to, even through the pain of his wounded waist. 

As hard as Richie breathes, the air doesn’t feel enough, he has trouble getting the words out. He hears the Losers screaming It down, knows that very soon Eddie will have to leave his side and if things go the same way they did a week before, Richie won’t be there when he returns.

“Eddie,” he says again, feeble, “Eds,” he repeats, getting sleepy.

Eddie turns and starts screaming, hurling insults at the clown. When It recedes to the opening in the centre of the cave, he turns to Richie. “Richie, I’ll be right back,” he tells him gently, strokes his cheek one last time. “Stay awake, I’ll be right back, we’ll get you out of here," he pleads. 

Richie’s hand twitches toward his retreating back from where it falls to the ground. He swallows down the blood in his mouth and his head falls to his shoulder. “I’m gonna miss you, Eds,” he mumbles to the empty air, and closes his eyes.

Dying doesn't feel like much. The pain before his eyes close is excruciating, Richie would have definitely done without if given the choice, but the drift into unconsciousness isn’t that different from falling asleep.

When he opens his eyes again, he's confused. He didn't think he would ever get another chance to, and he certainly didn't expect to end up back in Maturin's white void.

"Aren't I dead?" His question reverberates against what he now knows is Maturin's shell. 

The turtle's big watery eye swims closer and its voice echoes back to him from against the walless space. Richie can never tell where any of its body parts are. It is too big to see all at once, and too big even to see the end of its fins or shell. "Yes, Richie Tozier," it answers languidly.

"Okay," Richie says, unsure, "Then why am I back here?"

"You have," Maturin speaks again, its words are as slow as its drifting, "one more choice,” a pause, “to make."

Richie opens his mouth to respond, but he has no idea what the turtle is talking about. "Do I get to choose between heaven and hell?” he asks and scoffs, “Isn't that your job?" He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, realising he probably shouldn't be antagonising Maturin seen as it is the only reason Eddie's still alive instead of impaled to death and buried under a bunch of rocks. 

Maturin doesn't respond.

Richie blinks and the next time he opens his eyes, he's in his room at the Townhouse.

Everything looks exactly as it did when Richie returned there after their stop at the Quarry. His phone sits unused in its spot on the bedside table where Richie left it before going to Neibolt. He makes to grab it to check the date, make sure he hasn’t been thrown back in time again but before he takes it, he hears the door next to his - Eddie’s room - open and close a few moments later. 

There are steps outside his room, someone tries his unlocked door and it opens easily leaving Richie face to face with Eddie. Eddie makes his way inside, pulls the door closed behind him while holding clean clothes in his wet arms. His expression is blank, he moves robotically.

“Eddie,” he sighs in relief, “Good, you’re still alive.”

Eddie doesn’t react to his words, doesn’t seem to have heard him at all. In the back of Richie’s mind, an unpleasant suspicion arises, something Richie doesn’t want to name before he’s completely sure. Eddie makes his way to the bathroom and when Richie reaches for his shoulder as he passes, his hand goes right through him. Eddie doesn’t even flinch. _Ah_ , Richie thinks, _that explains it_. He swears under his breath and follows Eddie, who’s left the door to the bathroom open. 

Eddie puts his clean clothes on the closed lid of the toilet and checks himself in the mirror above the sink. He turns on the water and washes his hands furiously, scratching at his palms, pulling grime and blood out from his nail beds with harsh, calculated movements, and muttering something under his breath the entire time he's doing it. Richie gets closer, as close as he can without touching him, to try to hear what he's saying, but Eddie is speaking too quietly.

When he's done, he dries his hands and pulls back the bandage on his cheek slowly, the tape leaves a clean patch of skin as it comes away but from where he’s standing, Richie can see that the wound is still raw and bloody. Eddie pulls a small pouch out from under his clothes and cleans the gash carefully, using at least three different products and finishing with thick, clear cream and clean gauze. He puts the case aside and turns to the shower, switches on the water to the hottest setting.

Eddie takes his blood-stained shirt and hoodie off in one quick motion, winces slightly when they brush against his newly reapplied bandage. Richie averts his gaze, whirls away from him divesting and makes his way out of the room, doesn’t need to open the door to do so. He thinks of checking in on the others, wants to make sure that they all made it out alive, and goes to Bill's room. The door is open just enough that Richie can see inside to where Bill and Mike are sitting on the foot of the bed. Bill is murmuring something, but Richie doesn't pay attention to it, concentrating instead on Mike's hand in Bill's. He sees Bill swipe a thumb back and forth on the back of it in time with his gentle words and steps back from the door, from the moment he seems to be intruding on.

Before he can get to Ben's room, he hears his voice coming from Beverly's. The door is closed though, and Richie doesn't approach it at all, decides to wait for the group to assemble at the small bar on the lower floor instead. If things are going anything like they did one week before, that's exactly where all of them will be not too long from now.

He’s not wrong. Before long, Beverly and Ben make their way out of the room and into the small bar where Richie’s been sitting since checking in on them, on the same stool he occupied just one week before. They’re holding hands as they walk in, separate only when Beverly steps behind the counter and Ben takes his seat on the other side. She flips between the bottles brushing a finger on the labels, selects the same liquor she already has and pours two glasses, sliding one to Ben. They clink them and down the liquid without a word. That’s when Mike and Bill arrive. Beverly pours them drinks too and Richie realises he’ll be the only one to have to face this conversation without one. He sighs. “I’m the only one who died and I don’t even get booze out of it,” he says even though he knows no one will hear him, “Life really is unfair, huh.”

The air in the room is stifling even for him, and he doesn’t even need to breathe. When Richie remembers that his body technically doesn’t need to fulfil basic physical needs anymore, he’s not sure how he feels. His body doesn’t feel absent to him, he’s still aware of himself existing, of having hands and legs and of having to make the choice to move them, but he thinks that if he were to make a particular effort, his muscles wouldn’t ache with it, if he started running he wouldn’t feel the exhaustion or the pressure of breathlessness in his lungs. The thought freaks him out slightly, he wonders if he’ll ever see the turtle again and makes a mental note of asking it what’s going on.

Nobody says a word for a long time, they drink and sigh in turn, until Bill finally breaks the silence. “What should we do with R-Richie’s t-things?” he asks hesitantly, Mike visibly flinches.

Before any of the others can answer, Eddie clears his throat from the entrance of the room. Richie whirls toward him, as surprised as the others about his presence, stands up from the stool where Eddie’s surely going to sit. He can't be certain, but he thinks it took Eddie less than it took him to get cleaned up and out of the room.

“I’ll take them,” he says without a hint of hesitation, “I’m not going back to New York, anyway, I’m going with you to L.A., Bill.”

“What?!” Richie blurts at the same time as Beverly asks, much more patiently, “How come?”

When he speaks again, it’s Beverly’s question Eddie’s answering. “There’s going to be a bunch of legal affairs to deal with, what with there not being a bod-” he stutters, “with Richie missing,” says instead, “Someone’s going to have to make sure the proper people know the truth and we’re gonna need a story for the rest of us too.” He speaks quickly, there’s no room for discussion in his tone but despite this fact, Richie can tell that his detachment is mostly superficial, sees it in the way the muscle in Eddie’s jaw jumps with the strain of clenching his teeth and the fact that his hands are stiff on either side of his thighs.

Beverly shakes her head, “You don’t have to be the one to do that, Eddie,” her voice is careful and placating. Richie can’t help but agree, he’s not sure he’s okay with Eddie taking on that responsibility. If he’s been half as affected by Richie’s death as Richie was by his, even just the thought of all the things there are to do is absolute hell. All Richie did was take Eddie’s luggage, didn’t even think about the legal ramifications of Eddie dying and has no idea who took charge of them the previous week, and if Bill hadn’t been there to help he would have failed at that too.

“I want-” Eddie starts, Richie sees him realise what he was about to say would have been a lie, “I already know what needs to be done.” Before Beverly can speak again, he makes his way to the newly-freed stool and continues, “I took care of it when my mom died, I can do the same now.”

They haven’t talked about it, Richie realises. They didn’t have the time to understand where all of them were coming from before It made Its move again. Eddie hadn’t explicitly told them about his mom when they were at the restaurant but for some reason, Richie had already assumed she died.

Richie sees Beverly open her mouth to try and dissuade Eddie but before she speaks, Ben reaches a hand on top of hers on the bartop and shakes his head slightly. Her shoulders slump and she gives up with a sigh.

“Are you sh-s-sure, Eddie?” Bill asks, he’s looking intently into Eddie’s eyes. 

Eddie nods, doesn’t say anything else on the matter and changes the subject instead, asking Beverly to pour him a drink. She obliges, but Richie can tell she’s not happy with how the conversation went.

From where he’s standing next to him, Richie sees Eddie look into the glass without taking a drink. He seems to consider the liquor before he takes a small sip and winces, puts the glass back down and rolls it from one hand to the other. Eddie was never particularly fond of alcohol. Richie remembers sneaking out a couple of bottles from his dad’s pantry when they were just 14, bringing them to the clubhouse that same night and all of them getting tipsy on the tiniest amount of disgusting booze just for the thrill of it being something they weren’t allowed to do. Eddie had hesitated then, too, had caved under their petulant pressure but drank the least out of all of them, wrinkling his nose with every sip he took.

As everyone has their second or third drink of the day, silence settles around the room, a sombre air descending heavily on their shoulders. “You’d think someone died,” Richie blurts out, his ever-present need to break the silence a habit that won’t disappear even in death, and then remembers that someone did die. Richie did, and at this point, they all think Stan’s dead too. “Oh, fuck, guys,” he says excitedly, “You’re gonna lose your shit when you find out Stan’s alive.” He really hopes he’ll still be there when they do.

“So,” Mike begins, completely oblivious to what Richie just said, it shouldn’t, but it stings a bit. “When are you guys leaving, then?”

Eddie’s glass clatters against the wooden top of the bar, Richie turns to the noise at the same time as Beverly but Eddie’s expression is carefully slack and he’s looking at Mike so Beverly doesn’t say anything, Ben’s the one to answer instead.

“We don’t have a schedule but Beverly and me, we, huh...” he pauses and looks at her shily, she returns the look with a soft, encouraging smile. Richie already knows what his next words will be, is just as happy for them as he was before and weirdly enough, the envy is still there too. He doesn’t examine the feeling too closely because Ben continues, his voice gone even softer “...we’re going back together.”

Mike and Bill congratulate them just like they did the first time. Richie whistles lewdly, kind of misses the “Beep, beep” it would have certainly earned him. Now that he isn’t preoccupied with his grief over Eddie, he wonders why Mike and Bill aren’t surprised by the announcement, looks for the answer in Beverly’s expression. She’s not looking at them, though, her eyes are on Eddie, looking for his approval with an expectant smile just as she did with Richie. Eddie smiles back at her, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Beverly’s own smile turns sad and she looks away when Bill speaks.

“What about your husband?” he asks, putting his foot in his mouth again. Richie can’t help the laugh it pulls out of him. Bill flinches. “I-I mean, not that you sh-sh-should go back to him but that doesn’t seem like a problem that solves itself,” he stutters to explain.

Beverly sighs and Bill mutters a low “Sorry,” looking chastised. She shakes her head and smiles at him reassuringly, “Ben is putting me in contact with a lawyer friend of his and with some luck, the _'problem'_ will be dealt with as soon as possible.”

Richie has already heard this, knows that Beverly and Ben are about to make eyes at each other and as happy as he is for them, he doesn’t much care to relive it. He’s more interested in Eddie’s reaction. He leans with his lower back against the bar and looks down at Eddie next to him. “Hey, Spagheds, what do you think of the lovebirds?” he asks, already knowing he won’t get an answer.

Eddie is looking into his still full glass, shoulders hunched in on himself and a deep frown between his eyebrows. He’s smiling into the amber liquid but it’s frozen on his mouth like Eddie fixed it there and didn’t quite remember that he was supposed to mean it. It makes Richie’s heart lurch painfully in his chest and his face falls too. It doesn’t matter, though, because no one’s going to see it. His hand twitches with the urge to reach out, but the memory of it passing through Eddie’s body back in his room keeps him from moving.

“And you, Bill?” Mike’s voice comes from his left. “When are you due back?” he asks.

“I can stay for a few more days,” Bill says, “I can do my writing from p-pretty much anywhere. When do you want to leave?” he turns to Eddie.

Eddie sits up, looks back at Bill with a distracted expression, as if he’s surprised he’s being involved in the conversation. He recovers quickly, though, swallows down some of his drink before answering. “As soon as possible,” he replies bitterly, “The sooner we’re done with Derry, the better.” Richie can’t help but agree, he doesn’t know how long he has before Maturin decides he’s had more than enough time to follow his friends around like a ghost and sends him straight to hell, he doesn’t really want to spend what little he has left in the town that has quite literally become his resting place.

“Yeah, I get that,” Mike laughs. Eddie winces, realises what his words must have sounded like, but Mike doesn’t seem offended, he continues, “I’m leaving soon too.”

“Where are you gonna go?” Beverly’s the first to ask, again. Richie feels like he’s watching a rerun of a very shitty and depressing TV show that should have ended five seasons earlier than it did. He sighs, he’s gonna have to get used to this eventually or go mad. The Losers look at Mike expectantly, even Eddie.

Richie tunes Mike’s answer out. He already knows that Mike is gonna say he wants to go to Florida, Ben will offer him a bed in New York, Bill too but in L.A. Everything’s the same, aside from the dick joke. Even if the others won’t hear it, he’s tempted to make it anyway, just for the sake of it.

Eddie doesn’t say anything, finishes his drink with another wince and fiddles with the empty glass while Bill asks Mike when he’s going to leave and they all make plans to fly out on the same day.

It’s all rather dull to Richie, it’s just them making plans that he won’t really be part of. Sure, his ghostly body might still be around for it, but they won’t know either way.

The only thing that has changed is Eddie’s presence, so that’s what Richie concentrates on. He sees him slide a finger around the rim of the glass, Beverly notices it being empty and goes to pour him another drink, but Eddie covers the glass with his palm and shakes his head. Beverly thins her lips and puts back the bottle with one last look at him. 

“I have no idea how you’re gonna make it through this day sober, dude,” Richie tells Eddie, the urge to initiate their back-and-forths too rooted in him even now. The lack of reaction leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that he’s going to have to learn to live with. Richie doesn’t love the prospect. When he considers it, though, he has to face the fact that Eddie’s acting weirdly demure even by normal standards. He knows he won’t be able to get a reaction from him by annoying him to the best of his ability because Eddie can’t hear him, but his usual animateness, the way his face will show everything he’s feeling, the choppy movements of his hands are all gone, somewhat dulled like deprived of spark. He looks like a mannequin, is the picture he makes to Richie.

When they order food, Eddie asks for the only salad in the entirety of the menu and Richie shakes his head fondly, watches Eddie spear the leaves with his fork and move them around without really putting any in his mouth. “Come on, Eds,” he nudges with a shoulder against Eddie’s, goes through and regrets the lack of “Don’t call me that,” “You have to eat something, man.” But Eddie still doesn’t.

The conversation around them lulls to a sleepy murmur when the food is all gone. From his spot on the floor with his back against Eddie’s chair, Richie sees Eddie close the salad container still more than half full and leave it on the low table they’re sitting around. He sighs, doesn’t say anything this time. He looks at the others, at Beverly burrowed into Ben’s side on the smallest of the couches. She has her eyes closed and her head on Ben’s shoulder who’s drinking the last of his liquor with the hand that isn’t wrapped around her and a serene expression on his face. Bill and Mike are sitting on the opposite side of the table, talking quietly. Bill is leaning toward Mike intently, perching almost out of his seat. They all look tired. Richie can’t remember what they’d looked like a week ago, can only think of feeling lacking, lacking the relief they all seemed to share. He’s sure they must have been just as tired back then, their day hadn’t been easy by any meaning of the word, but he hadn’t noticed it. He’d been stuck in a bubble, inattentive and absent, realises he hadn’t been noticing anything but himself. He can’t feel too selfish for it though, the sting of Eddie’s lifeless body in his arms hasn’t quite become a memory yet, though the relief of having done the right thing is there too.

He looks up at Eddie then, expects him to be surveying the room just as Richie himself had done in his place, but he’s not. Eddie is looking down at his hands, one palm open and exposed, the fingers of the other rolling his wedding band around his ring finger. He keeps lifting the metal hoop up as if sliding it off, only to push it back down on his finger. He does it enough times that Richie’s hand twitches to lay on Eddie’s and halt the movement. He doesn’t need to - it would be useless anyway - because Eddie stops abruptly, checks his watch and stands up, all in one quick motion. Richie scrambles to his feet next to him.

“It’s late, I’m gonna go to sleep,” Eddie points to the stairs behind him with a thumb, doesn’t wait for the chorus of goodnights he receives before turning and making his way to the upper floor. Richie goes after him, Bill does too.

At his “Hey, Eddie, w-wait up,” Eddie looks back, leans on the bannister to do just that. Bill reaches him and motions for him to keep walking. “Do you, uhm,” he hesitates, looks down at the stairs as they make their way up, “Do you r-r-really think it’s a good idea to c-come to L.A.?” he asks, looks at Eddie’s face with a crease between his eyebrows.

Eddie swallows, grits his teeth so fast that Richie almost misses it. “Yes,” he answers without a trace of hesitation, “It’s the leas- It’s the right thing,” he corrects himself.

Bill doesn’t respond, looks from one of Eddie’s eyes to the other as they come to a stop a few steps from Eddie’s room. He doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but Richie is sure he already knows it’s no use to argue with Eddie. He can recognise the glint of stubbornness in his eyes, and he’s certain Bill can too. He only nods, opens his mouth to say something but closes it again without a word.

Eddie steps away from him, reaches for Richie’s doorknob instead of his own and seems embarrassed when he notices Bill looking at him with confusion. “There’s still blood all over my room,” he explains hastily, a finger scratching at his nose in what Richie recognises is a nervous gesture, “and it reeks. I don’t really wanna sleep in there,” _It’s not like Richie’s gonna need the bed anyway_ , he doesn’t say because it’s something that Richie would have, not Eddie, but it's true either way.

“Oh, r-right,” Bill nods, “Goodnight, then.” He pats Eddie’s shoulder, lets his hand linger like he wants to say more but doesn’t, turns around and makes his way back to the sitting room instead. Richie watches him go and misses Eddie slipping into his room, gets a closed door in his face when he makes to get in after him and resigns himself to just pass through the door. Even though it doesn’t feel like anything for him, he can’t feel the wood of the door or the action of passing through it, he hates it.

Eddie stands in the middle of the room without moving, then he sighs and his shoulders slump. Richie hadn’t noticed the tension Eddie was holding but can tell the exact moment it slips out of him and leaves him looking like an over-grown, middle-aged rag doll. Richie walks closer, looks at Eddie’s face as Eddie studies the floor at his feet. He takes a good look, takes his fill of the new lines on Eddie’s features, of the laughter lines beside his eyes, his irises bigger and browner than ever, memorizes the accentuated dimples at the sides of his lips, made even deeper by the harsh set of his jaw. As hard as he tries, he almost can’t reconcile the memory of the 13-year-old he knew to this adult man in front of him and it unsettles him. Richie knows he has seen it in him, remembers looking at the same face in the white void and finding his youthful sparkle without having to try at all, but this version of Eddie is so far away from that. He can only see worry and heartbreak, and a bottomless weariness he has no idea how to ease. He finds himself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long while.

Eddie moves then, steps ahead, and Richie has to move out of the way not to get walked through. He sits on the foot of the bed and lifts off his shirt in a quick movement, making sure not to dislodge the bandage on his cheek, presses a hand against it to check that it’s still fixed firmly against the skin. When he goes to the button of his pants, Richie looks away.

It’s not like they’ve never changed in front of each other or seen each other naked when they were kids, but even though Richie thinks that given enough time they would have easily slipped into each other’s rhythm even after twenty-seven years apart, they haven’t had a chance to yet, won’t get to after all, and Richie thinks giving him the privacy is the decent thing to do even if Eddie doesn’t know. It’s irrational, but Richie is not famous for being reasonable anyway.

He hears rustling behind him and turns to see Eddie slipping underneath the covers in his underwear. Richie actively doesn’t dwell on it. Then, Eddie turns off the lamp on the bedside table and the room is enveloped in darkness, leaving Richie standing quite stupidly in the middle of it. Before he can decide what to do with the rest of the night, his body moves toward the bed and he sits down on the side that Eddie isn’t occupying, facing him. He thinks he hears Eddie breathe heavily into the pillow, a small whimper escape from the cocoon he makes under the covers, but he can’t see his face and he doesn’t want to be sure. Richie digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand, balls his fist painfully to stop it from reaching out, and listens hopelessly to Eddie’s breathing go shaky before it goes slack.

Richie doesn’t fall asleep, doesn’t even know if he can, and forgets that the others are still awake downstairs.

When the morning light peeks from the strip under the door, Richie has long since moved to sit with his back against the headboard. At some point during the night, he closed his eyes and let Eddie’s resting breathing lull him into a sort of meditative state, but he’s not sleeping and doesn’t wake when he hears noises coming from outside. Eddie doesn’t stir yet, so he stands up and stretches perfunctorily, gives one last look to the softly snoring body next to him before he makes his way out of the room to check on the others.

Bill is the only one already up and dressed. He’s opening the windows of the sitting room and basking in the sunlight with his eyes closed. The room is still scattered with the remnants of their dinner, empty food-friendly boxes toppled over carelessly and several liquor bottles crowded on one end of the coffee table, though Richie isn’t the one responsible for them this time. He kind of wishes he was, would give anything for even just a glass of fresh water in his hands at the moment. He sighs and sits on the chair Eddie had been occupying the night before - it doesn’t dip under his weight - and follows Bill’s lead, lying back with his eyes closed and imagining he can feel the warmth of the sun.

Ben soon joins them, followed on his heels by Beverly. Richie doesn’t miss the fact that they’re coming out of the same room and smirks to himself, “Didn’t waste any time, did you?” he jokes, doesn’t get an answer or even a slight blush from Ben. Still, he’s happy for them.

Bill greets them with a smiley “Good morning,” and they return it, Ben going past him toward the bar area and resurfacing with a black plastic bag, ready to pick up the trash they’ve left behind while Beverly sits next to Bill and they start discussing flight times. Richie is happy to tune out the conversation and get lost in his own thoughts, it’s not like he could contribute anyway.

He’s just wondering what his manager will say when he finds out he’s not coming back when the noise of shoes coming down the stairs interrupts his train of thought and he turns to see Eddie approaching the sitting room. He’s wearing the same jeans from the night before but instead of one of his polos, Richie immediately recognises one of his own shirts on his shoulders and the place where his heart should be beating jolts behind his ribs.

Eddie shoots the room a mumbled “‘morning” and gets to helping Ben pick up the trash, going around the room in a circular pattern and dividing whatever he picks up by material for recycling. It’s the first time Eddie’s looked relaxed since they’ve been in Derry.

When Eddie and Ben are finished cleaning up, they all make their way out to meet Mike for a late breakfast and decide to book their flights later in the day.

At the diner, Eddie leaves the table to wash his hands three times. The other Losers look after him with increasing levels of worry on their faces after each one but say nothing, and Richie doesn’t follow after him either. He sits perched on the back of their booth looking toward to bathroom for the entire time Eddie’s gone and when he comes back, he notices how his palms and nailbeds are scrubbed red and raw. 

After they’re done eating and paying, Mike goes back to his apartment to finish packing, while the others return to the Townhouse. Richie remembers that Bill will be going to check on the family of the kid that died at the carnival, while Beverly and Ben will stay behind. He doesn’t know what Eddie will do.

He’s right though, Bill does announce his intention. Beverly, Ben, and Eddie look at him doubtfully, but in a deviation from last time, someone does comment on it, Eddie to be specific. “Is that such a good idea?” he asks Bill, “What are you gonna tell them? They don’t even know who you are and that their son is dead.” Richie flinches at his directedness, but Eddie’s not wrong.

Beverly winces, she looks like she wants to say something to placate Eddie’s words but before she can, Bill speaks.

“I’ll be discreet,” he says, he doesn’t sound all that certain, “I just want to make sure they’re alright.”

Eddie opens his mouth to say more, but Richies sees Ben touch his forearm gently and shake his head, and Eddie gives up.

“Are you going out, Eddie?” Beverly breaks the tension.

Eddie looks at her and shakes his head. “I need to pack my stuff, gather Rich-” he stutters, falls silent. “Make sure I have everything before we leave,” says instead. Eddie’s things are already packed though, Richie remembers how quickly Bill had gotten everything out of his room, and Richie’s own baggage isn’t much more than a backpack full of clothes, most of which are still inside his duffel.

When Bill leaves and Beverly and Ben go back to their room, he follows Eddie to his own.

At first, he thinks of going to the Kissing Bridge again, but there’s no use for it now, no real reason for him to rehash that old memory. He wouldn’t be able to recarve the faded letters anyway so going there would just be a needless punishment that he’s not too keen on inflicting on himself.

The floor of Eddie’s room is still stained in blood - they haven’t seen anyone work in this place since they arrived so Richie isn’t surprised - and the bathroom looks like a murder scene with the curtain pulled off its rod and the pool of Eddie’s blood congealing slowly in the bathtub. Richie can’t blame Eddie for not wanting to sleep in his room.

He watches Eddie efficiently grab a couple of shirts from the chair in the corner and some items he left in the bathroom before rolling himself and his humongous suitcases out of the room and into Richie’s. He makes quick work of folding the shirts and stuffing them into a plastic ziplock bag and back into the suitcase and of putting his toiletries back into their own bag. Richie is enthralled by his quick organised movements, the way he knows exactly what he’s going to do next before he’s even finished putting away what he already has in his hands. Then, Eddie steps up to Richie’s rucksack and Richie expects it to be handled just as quickly and efficiently, but Eddie falters instead. He bends down to lift the bag on the bed, stops just inches from touching it and straightens up, stepping carefully away.

Eddie collapses more than sit on the foot of the bed, scrubs a hand on his face and sighs deeply.

“Come on, Eds,” Richie jokes, forcing a smile on his lips, “I know there are at least three dirty socks in there, but you can’t let that defeat you.”

Eddie sighs again and sits up, turns around and reaches a hand to the bedside table, grabbing Richie’s phone. Richie panics. He already knows Eddie will be able to unlock the screen because Richie has given up on setting a passcode after the fifth time he’d forgotten what it was. He does a mental check of what might be in there that he doesn’t want Eddie - or any of the other Losers for that matter - to see and almost lunges for his phone without even thinking that he’ll just pass through it. Before he can, though, Eddie taps at the screen in quick sequence and puts the phone to his ear, thinks better of it and lowers it between his knees holding it with both hands instead. He pushes another button and the tone of a call ringing resounds heavily in the room.

In a remote part of his brain, Richie knows that the decent thing to do would be to get out of the room as fast as he can, leave Eddie the privacy he obviously wants to make this call. But Richie doesn’t recognise the number on his screen and he’s dying to know who’s going to answer. He’ll figure he’ll atone for it later, when the turtle comes back to grab him by the ear to send him straight to hell.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end replies. Richie thinks he can tell it’s a woman.

“Myra, it’s Eddie,” he says, opens his mouth to say more, but gets interrupted.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Myra shrieks, a sigh of relief audible in the words, “My Eddie-bear, I’ve been worried sick.” Her voice is piercing and petulant, Eddie flinches at the nickname and Richie feels bile rise in his throat.

“I know,” Eddie says, placating, “I should have called earlier, but my phone broke.”

“When are you coming back, Eddie, honey?” she asks, “You left without saying anything, sweetheart, don’t you know what that does to me?”

Eddie closes his eyes, swears under his breath and squeezes the bridge of his nose hard between his thumb and index finger.

Richie gets a vivid picture of Mrs Kasprak in her floral robe towering behind 13-year-old Eddie, face framed by sloppy and greasy curls. He remembers her glasses perched severely on the slope of her nose, her lips pressed thin beneath the layer of messy bubblegum-coloured lipstick and her grabby hand gripping around Eddie’s forearm as she passed him a bottle of undefined pills and a glass of water. He gags. The impulse to wretch is almost a physical urge when he thinks of how unequipped they were back then, how blind the adults around them had been to the abuse going on in Eddie’s house. He hadn’t been scared of her as a kid, had made fun of her any occasion he got, but the thought of Eddie going back under her thumb - under anything even remotely similar to it - terrifies him as an adult. He really wishes his unfounded opinion of Eddie’s wife had been wrong.

When Eddie speaks next, his voice comes out shaky, Richie can tell he’s trying not to snap. “Myra, listen-”

“You can’t disappear like that ever again, Eddie-bear,” she ignores him and presses on, “I’m your wife, you should listen to me instead of running off on your own. That man who called you, what was his name?” she doesn’t wait for an answer, “He doesn’t know what’s good for you, you haven’t even heard from him in twenty-seven years. I’m the one who knows what’s good for y-”

Eddie’s grip around the phone in his hand goes deadly. Richie imagines he hears it crack between his fingers. “Myra!” he shouts, and she falls blissfully silent. Eddie takes a deep breath. “We need to talk,” he continues in a much lower voice.

“What is it, Eddie?” she asks only.

Eddie swallows and squares his shoulders, whatever he says next isn’t coming out easily. “I want a divorce,” he announces finally, unwavering.

Richie sucks in a breath, covers his mouth to stifle the noise and looks down at the phone in Eddie’s hand as he waits for what Myra will say. A few seconds pass without a word. Eddie opens his mouth to say more, but then Myra speaks again.

“Sweetheart,” she hisses, her pitch is high and saccharine, it makes Richie shudder, “what are you talking about?”

“Myra,” Eddie repeats, “things haven’t been good for a long time,” he explains, “I couldn’t see it before,” _Before we remembered_ , Richie thinks, “but you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed too.”

Myra replies, Richie knows she does, but he’s not listening anymore. He starts pacing the room in front of Eddie, watches his expression to understand what he’s thinking, but Eddie only looks determined and tired as he tells her he’ll send her the papers, shuts the call before she can go on another tirade.

“Well, fuck me,” Richie blurts out, glad that Eddie can’t hear him, “I should have definitely not been here for this conversation.” He thinks that listening in on it was punishment in and of itself. “Fuck,” he repeats softly.

Eddie sits and looks intently at the dark screen of Richie’s phone in his hands for a couple more minutes, then hee stands up and grits his jaw, pocketing it. He grabs Richie’s bag from the floor with a resolute pull and lifts it on the bed, but his hands are shaky when he slides the zipper open. He pulls the contents out one by one: two t-shirts, one pair of pants, four briefs, and five socks. He dives deeper, searches the bag again for anything else that might be left and puts it aside when he can’t find it.

Eddie looks down at the clothes spread out on the bedsheet for longer than Richie thinks is warranted. He feels embarrassed under Eddie’s scrutiny of his belongings. “I swear I have better clothes in L.A.,” he defends himself, but he knows he really doesn’t.

Eddie doesn’t hear him, slides his hand over the fabrics, picks one of the shirts and unfolds it only to fold it again, much neater. He does the same with the rest of the clothes, organising them in piles, and when he’s done, he puts everything back into the bag and moves it on top of one of his suitcases, ready to be carried out when he leaves.

Richie realises Eddie’s been grinding his teeth ever since he finished his phonecall, still is when he makes his way into the bathroom to wash his hands after putting Richie's things in order. Richie can't help but feel slightly offended, follows Eddie to the bathroom with a huff and sees him scrub insistently at his palms, under his already pristine nails. Eddie moves his mouth, muttering under his breath like he did the last time Richie watched him wash his hands but once again, Richie can't hear what he's saying.

Eddie goes back to the bedroom and hoists one of his suitcases on the bed. He goes through that one too, moving his belongings around and sorting them in an order that Richie can't decipher.

When he's well and truly done, Eddie steps out of the room and down to the living area. He finds the others the same way Richie had found them when he returned from the Kissing Bridge.

Beverly is walking the length of the corridor in front of their rooms, clutching her phone tightly against her ear and talking quietly but animatedly into it. Mike and Ben are sitting on one of the sofas downstairs, huddled on either side of Bill. Mike has an arm around his shoulders, and he’s speaking softly to Bill with a hand caressing his back. Bill is hunched on himself, elbows on his knees, hand covering the lower half of his frowning face. Ben seems to be listening too, although he keeps sending worried glances Beverly’s way.

Richie watches Eddie look at Bill and shake his head, but he doesn’t say anything. He sidles up behind the sofa and squeezes a hand on Bill’s shoulder who notices and looks up at him, sniffling and forcing out an unconvincing smile.

Eddie lets go, walks over to sit on the couch on the opposite side of the coffee table as Bill wipes at his eyes and straightens up, making Mike’s hand shift away. “It’s fine, I’m g-good,” he says, squeezing Mike’s thigh gratefully.

Beverly finishes her phone call and joins them a couple of seconds later, and proposes they book their flights before ordering food again.

They find the flights for the next day, at the same time they did one week before when Richie was alive, but this time Eddie insists on buying his and Bill’s tickets together to make sure they’ll get to sit next to each other. “Besides, I have a rewards card and you don’t,” Eddie explains, “It would be a waste.” Bill agrees, but only after making Eddie promise that he’ll let him repay the cost. Richie wonders idly if he’ll have to spend the entire nine hours of the flight on his feet instead of dwelling on the fact that he’d dreaded the thought of going back to L.A. just one week before and now he’s kind of bitter that he doesn’t get to. It’s silly, he would have given it all up for another minute with Eddie, but now that Eddie’s alive, he would do anything to actually get to share his company.

Richie knows he should be grateful, that Eddie getting to live was and still is the best outcome he can hope for, but a small part of him still wants more, like a spoiled child. In reality, he’s known since he was twelve that Eddie would never be with him in the way he wanted, he’s had literal decades to come to terms with it even when he couldn’t remember. The most Richie has ever had reason to hope for was friendship, and he gladly gave it up for something more important, for Eddie getting to live.

The thought nags at him for the rest of the night. He barely pays attention to his friends around him, to Eddie ordering a mushy, depressing salad again and leaving most of it in the container it came in. He stands up when Eddie does, going back to his room to sleep, and follows close behind him, manages to make it inside before the door closes in his face this time.

He leans against the doorframe of the bathroom, listens to Eddie wash his teeth diligently and suspects that if he were to time him, it would take him exactly two minutes. Eddie washes his hands again, just as forcefully as he’s done so far, and Richie looks at his mouth move around words that he still can’t make out, wants to reach out and stop his furious fingers.

He sits on the edge of the bed as Eddie tosses and turns through the night and wishes he could calm him down, that he was allowed to brush his hair back and lull him to sleep with soft words of reassurance. But he can’t, and Eddie eventually slips into a restless sleep under Richie’s watchful gaze.

In the morning, Richie is startled out of a sleep-like trance by the noise of the shower running.

He debates waiting for Eddie to finish, but he doesn’t think he’s ready for the prospect of him emerging from the bathroom in just a towel and makes his way out of the room instead.

Mike is already downstairs, Bill sitting not far from him. They’re talking and drinking the coffee Mike brought. Bill looks a lot better than he did just the day before and Richie feels relieved.

He looks around the room, locates Mike’s suitcases in their spot at the side of the loveseat and Bill’s room key on the coffee table in front of him.

The window behind them is open to let the warm September air in and Richie approaches it, stands in front of it and tries to feel it on his immaterial skin with little success. He sighs, thinks he would sell a kidney to feel the sunshine on his skin again and taste the bitterness of black coffee he hates so much. Then, Bill’s phone rings loudly and Richie’s train of thought is interrupted as Bill excuses himself and makes his way outside, grabbing the keys from the table as he goes.

It’s then that Eddie comes out of his room, freshly showered and dressed.

Richie doesn’t need to ask how he slept, the dark circles around his eyes confirm his suspicion that the little sleep he did get was inadequate at best, plagued with nightmares at worst. Richie is leaning heavily toward the second possibility.

Mike lowers the book he’s brought with him and greets Eddie with a “Hey, how was your run?” Richie looks from one to the other with confusion.

“Did you really go running at asscrack o’clock,” he asks without expecting an answer, “after getting five entire minutes of sleep?”

“It was fine,” Eddie answers, he doesn’t even attempt a smile. While Mike doesn’t seem to take offence, he still looks at Eddie with vague worry in his eyes. “Anyone else up yet?” Eddie changes the subject and takes one of the coffees Mike brought with a small, grateful nod. Contrary to Richie, Eddie doesn’t comment on the fact that Mike only has two suitcases. Richie still feels bad about what Mike had to give up because of It, but it stings slightly less the second time around and knowing that in a few days they’ll find out Stan is alive and reunite in his hospital room makes him optimistic for all of their futures. He tries not to think of the immense darkness of uncertainty that is surely waiting for him as soon as the turtle decides to show itself to Richie, is moderately successful at it, too.

“Yeah. Bill’s taking a call outside,” Mike explains, “Bev and Ben are still packing.”

Right at that moment, as if on cue, Bill returns from his call, phone still in one hand and keys in the other. He sees Eddie and says, “Oh, hey! Are you d-done packing?” Eddie nods and swallows the coffee in his mouth. “Do you n-n-need any help bringing down...” Bill trails off hesitantly, recovers almost immediately but not before Eddie’s gaze goes dark, “...your stuff?” he finishes lamely. Mike looks between the two of them from behind his book, his expression unreadable.

“No, it’s fine,” Eddie replies mechanically. His grip around the coffee cup goes tighter and then loosens again when the paper crinkles under it. Richie really does not know how to feel. He still thinks Eddie shouldn’t be the one taking care of Richie’s stuff or affairs in general, but the others are not going to succeed in changing his mind and there isn’t anything Richie can do in his current state, he feels so powerless. Eddie puts his half-finished coffee back on the table and gets up. “I think I’m gonna start loading the car, actually,” he announces and makes his way up the stairs a little faster than is probably needed. Bill and Mike exchange a look behind his back as he goes.

Richie stays downstairs. He watches Eddie go into the room and roll out his suitcases before going back in for Richie’s bag. He exits with it pulled over one shoulder and closes the door behind him, pocketing the key. 

He has too many suitcases to bring them all down in one trip, but he still doesn’t put down Richie’s bag as he makes his way back up for the second luggage.

Richie follows Eddie outside to his sensibly-sized car, watches him load the baggage in the trunk with the practised ease of someone who’s done it before and not a second look at Richie’s flashy rental. When it comes to Richie’s duffel, though, Eddie hesitates. He picks it up from the pavement and makes to leave it with the rest of his bags, almost lets go of it. His grip tightens around the handle at the last second and he shuts the trunk instead, brings Richie’s duffel to the side of the car and puts it on the backseat, has to visibly make himself let go of it to close the door. Something that feels a lot like liquid lead festers in the dept of Richie’s stomach.

After Mike, Ben, and Beverly are also done loading their own things in the back of Ben’s car, they go back inside to leave the keys and are ready to leave Derry behind.

They all take their places in the cars - Eddie and Bill together with Richie passing through the door to get to the backseat next to his own bag, Beverly and Mike with Ben - and head out to Bangor.

The rest of the day passes in much the same fashion it already has for Richie. They get lunch, head to the airport, and say their goodbyes. Beverly takes her time to squeeze each of the others tightly against her and Richie feels the absence like a physical sensation. She rests a hand on Eddie's uninjured cheek after she lets him go but swallows down the words she seems to want to say. Richie thinks it's for the best: Eddie's eyes are already wet and glassy as it is and Richie still remembers how much he'd always hated crying in front of them.

On the airplane, Richie resigns himself to sitting in the small passage between the two rows of seats, right next to Eddie. They are nine long hours of trying not to get walked through by people who need the bathroom and the flight attendants offering food and refreshments. At first, he stands up and to the side every time he notices someone coming toward him, but gets pretty bored of it around the third hour and gives up. It doesn’t feel like anything anyway.

He is bored out of his mind. He tries to cheer himself up by making fun of anything he sees in the plane, any tiny thing that catches his eye but with no one to hear him, it gets old pretty fast. He really wishes he could reach into his bag in front of Eddie’s feet - when Bill had offered him a hand to hoist it up to the overhead compartment and reached for it, Eddie had almost shouted him down before apologizing and much more calmly declining the help - to take out the pills that he knows are still in it and just pass out for the rest of the ride.

Instead, when he’s not exhausting his vocal cords, Richie spends the trip looking at Eddie.

After almost getting screamed at, Bill seems hesitant to make small talk. He sits next to Eddie rigidly and, every few minutes, sends him worried glances over the edge of the book he’s brought for passing the time, opens his mouth more than once only to close it again without saying a word. Eddie doesn’t seem to notice, he keeps clenching and unclenching his fists, the muscle in his jaw is tauter than ever, flexing every few minutes with the force of his teeth-gritting. It only comes loose when Eddie starts nodding off, still exhausted from the very little sleep of the previous night, Richie guesses.

So Richie looks at him, watches his lids twitch tinily as he dreams. Eddie’s sleep is short and erratic, he seems to be slipping into it heavily at times, only to startle awake shortly after and through the whole of it, he keeps whimpering and whining softly under his breath, an almost inaudible noise that Bill also picks up on, shaking Eddie out of his nightmares whenever it seems like he’s having a particularly bad one. Richie doesn’t have trouble guessing what it is he’s seeing, knows that if it hadn’t been for Maturin calling him to its void, he would have been battling the same kind of nightmares for the past week, for a lot longer to come if the turtle hadn’t given him the chance to swap Eddie’s future with his own.

Around the seventh hour of the flight, Richie slips into the sleep-like trance he’s been falling into the last two nights he’s spent with Eddie. He’s listening with closed eyes to Eddie’s breathing as he drifts into another bout of nightmares, concentrated enough that his own breath unconsciously tries to fall into rhythm with his. Dead as he is, and as suspended into a dimension he doesn’t strictly belong to anymore, he doesn’t breathe in air so much as mechanically goes through the motion of it by habit alone. It doesn’t feel like stopping existing like it has so far, he can tell clearly when he stops hearing the noises of the people on the plane, stops feeling the presence of Eddie and Bill in the seats above him, but it’s not unpleasant, it isn’t anything at all.

In the edges of his vision, a familiar blinding whiteness creeps all around him, swallowing him inch by inch and surrounding the impression of his body. Richie thinks he hears the rippling swooshes of Maturin swimming through the emptiness, but before he can see the edges of his shell and his all-seeing eye, the plane lands and the ding of the seatbelt signal goes off, pulling him out of whatever state he just slipped in. Richie doesn’t think much of it, brushes it off as a memory, as just the repetition of something that he’s gone through enough times by now to become habit.

He stands up and follows Eddie and Bill as they get off the plane, waits more patiently than he’s ever been able to for Eddie’s luggage to arrive and listens to him and Bill talk about the new texts in the group chat that announce the arrival of Beverly, Ben, and Mike to their destination in New York without really being able to make any contribution to the conversation.

Just like before, Bill and Eddie make their way to the taxi parking and load their luggage in two different vehicles, Bill helping Eddie after he’s done with his own much smaller trolley.

Eddie is carrying Richie’s duffel on his shoulder again, puts it down for just a moment while he lifts his suitcases in the trunk of the taxi. Bill doesn’t reach for it this time, though, and eventually, Eddie just takes it in hand again, closing the trunk without leaving it with the rest of the luggage.

“I’ll b-be around soon, Ed,” Bill promises as soon as he loosens his hug around Eddie, keeps a hand on his shoulder while he speaks, “Let me know when you g-g-get to the house, okay?” The smile on his lips is hopeful and his eyes keep flitting between Eddie’s, trying to read his intentions in them, if he’ll make good on his request.

Eddie nods, thins his lips in something that isn’t quite a smile but is still the closest to one he’s been able to muster so far. “You too, Big Bill,” he replies.

Instead of saying anything else, Bill pulls Eddie in again. When he lets him go, they turn to their respective taxis and ride away. Richie knows with absolute certainty that Bill will keep his word.

He sits next to Eddie as the taxi drives away, Richie’s duffel between them, but even if it wasn’t Richie wouldn’t try to reach out, not now that he knows that his hand would pass through Eddie’s skin and probably not if he was alive either. Eddie looks outside the window for the entire time and as hard as Richie tries, he can’t see more than a faint reflection of his detached expression in the glass. He wonders how Eddie found his address, if he found his house keys in the bag when he packed, but doesn’t dwell on it too much because he can’t ask and the thought is unimportant anyway.

His suspicion is confirmed when they get to the apartment because Eddie goes straight for the zipper where Richie knows his keys are and unlocks the door easily.

Eddie pauses in the doorway, the light from the streetlights casts his shadow through the entrance, illuminating the way just enough for Eddie to locate the light switch as he makes his way inside, trailing the suitcases in behind him.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Richie announces with open arms and a voice that would definitely be too loud for the time of night if anyone could hear it, “Mi casa es tu casa, Eduardo.” His mangled and borderline offensive Spanish accent doesn’t get a reaction, not a wrinkled nose at the juvenile nickname.

Eddie crosses the few feet that divide the front door from the living room, takes a quick look around but doesn’t stop to explore, turning instead to the broad corridor that leads to Richie’s bedroom and a guest room. Richie follows closely behind him as Eddie passes the door to the guest bedroom, opens it just enough to look inside and notice its spotlessness, and moves confidently past it to Richie’s room.

Richie can’t remember the state he’ll find it in. He has a mild moment of panic because he knows for certain that the bed will still be unmade, but he has no idea if Eddie will be welcomed by a pile of clean - or, god forbid, dirty! - laundry that he put off clearing away before packing and hightailing it to Derry, not to mention the disarray of pens and papers that he always throws over the edge of the bed after the sleepless nights when he’s tired enough to hazard writing his own material, always unsuccessfully. If he was still alive, he would be rushing around Eddie, picking things up as he goes and stuffing them in the - definitely open - closet to get the room to a semblance of tidiness, but instead he lets out a whiny groan and resigns himself to having to look at the vein that will surely pop on Eddie’s forehead as soon as he sets his eyes on the mess that Richie’s life had been.

Eddie pushes the unlocked door open with a hesitant hand, the other gripping tightly around the strap of Richie’s bag, and feels around the wall for the light. When he finally finds it, he washes the room in warm light and steps inside, not much further than the entrance, and stops. Even though Richie doesn’t need air anymore, he holds his breath in anticipation for Eddie’s reaction, who looks around himself and then, with a deep sigh that makes his shoulders slump with the force of it, closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose almost hard enough to hurt. The fist of his other hand around the bag strap is white-knuckled and desperate.

He stays like that for a few seconds, just standing in the door and breathing in and out, and Richie circles to his front, trying to see if he’s okay. “Eddie...” he calls softly, reaches a hand and almost touches him, but then Eddie straightens up, squaring his shoulders and turning back to the door. Richie thinks he’s surely going to get out and reconsider the guest bedroom but instead, Eddie reaches outside the door and pulls his suitcases in, surveying the room again to look for a spot to leave them.

Richie sits on the bed and watches Eddie find a place in his space. He rests the duffel gingerly on the foot of the bed, turns to pull out clean clothes to sleep in from the smaller of his suitcases, and makes his way to the bathroom carrying his toiletry bag. Through the open door of the ensuite, Richie keeps watching him, counts the seconds Eddie takes to brush his teeth and gets exactly to one hundred and twenty, diverts his gaze when he shimmies out of his travel-creased outfit to pull on pyjamas, and looks intently at his moving mouth while he washes his hands furiously, pulling at nonexistent grime under his fingernails, still muttering words that Richie doesn’t know.

Something squeezes in his chest when Eddie turns off the light and makes his way to the bed. Richie tries not to think that if they’d remembered each other, this could have been a routine, that Eddie might have come to visit him from time to time, and they could have spent the night pulling their teenage selves out of each other, watching dumb nostalgic movies on the unnecessarily large TV in Richie’s room and eating snacks that would have made Eddie whine about the crumbs between the sheets for hours. They would have fallen asleep with the TV still on, and Richie would have taken his fill of looking at Eddie in the safety of darkness, always nursing feelings that he knows wouldn’t be reciprocated. He can’t imagine his feelings returned, not even in his wildest dreams, but he knows that even just knowing Eddie was out there would have filled the void of loneliness that Richie has had to live and die with for the last thirty years. He tries harder, and lets the darkness fall on his thoughts when Eddie turns off the lamp on Richie’s bedside table, settles next to him for the sleepless night that is to come.

When Eddie finally falls asleep, after sending Bill the text letting him know he is safe at destination, Richie closes his eyes and listens to his slow breathing, lets it lull him into the daze that now takes the place of sleep.

He feels the whiteness falling like a blanket over the space around him, opens his eyes to the turtle’s emptiness and hears the swooshing motion surround him to the rhythm of its swimming. For the first time, he sees the small black opening without effort and when he concentrates on it, he can hear the noise of Eddie being alive on the other side.

Richie lies down on his back, looks into the endlessness above him, and imagines he can see the configuration of the stars and the planets in the vacuity. The turtle doesn’t speak and Richie, for once, puts his questions aside and only listens.

Eddie goes on a run again the next morning. Richie slips away from the void and back into tangible reality to a shorts-and-running-shoes-wearing Eddie ready to leave the house. He doesn’t know what time it is but by the pinkish tint of the sky outside his bedroom window, he guesses the sun is either about to rise or just has and lets out a groan. Of course Eddie would grow into one of those freaks who get up at ungodly hours just so they don’t skip even one single day of exercise even though they had a killer clown on their asses just a couple of days earlier and have barely gotten enough sleep since. Then again, he should have expected it, Eddie always did love running, it was exactly the reason why Richie had gotten so angry back when Mrs Kasprak had pulled him out of gym class.

Richie considers following him on his run around the neighbourhood, makes it as far as the front door and rethinks his choice when he realises that even though running wouldn’t feel like an effort to his immaterial body, he likes the prospect just as much as he did when he was alive. That is to say, he doesn’t.

He watches as Eddie ties the house keys to the string of his shorts and closes the door behind him, then stands there just looking at the wood of it without really knowing what he’s supposed to do with all the time on his hands. Dead life is only going to get more boring now that all of his friends are back to their respective homes. It’s not a big change from how life was for Richie when he was still alive - aside from the touring and the endless meetings about target audiences and uninteresting sexist jokes about masturbation - but at least back then he hadn’t known there were people out there he’d have enjoyed the company of.

He makes his way to the living room, distractedly cataloguing every single thing that Eddie will find out of place when he returns without being able to do anything about it at all, and berates himself for how snobby he sounds in his own head. Saying that he’s been completely alone for thirty years would be a lie. He did make friends on his brief college career who had been company enough at the time even though his memories of Derry had been only just freshly forgotten and the deprivation was still a tangible feeling despite the fact that he hadn’t been able to put a name to it, plus his manager always did make sure that he was okay, at least physically, as monetary as his interest was in Richie’s wellbeing.

The Losers, though, they were something else entirely. They were family when there wasn’t one, and they were understanding and warmth even through the arguments and the punches - very often non-metaphorical ones - that Richie never did find a substitute for, nor did he know to seek.

For all the big talk Richie made of his own life, and he did enjoy the easiness that came with whatever fame he got, being in the closet had not been fun. Not having a family to come out to that was important enough to make him want to come out to the world too had been even worse, and then there was the self-hatred. His mouth goes dry and bitter when he remembers that going back to save Eddie means that he died without ever saying it, his moment at the hotel bar erased along with his courage, and tries to convince himself that it’s only one less worry to deal with, but it doesn’t quite ring true.

When Eddie gets back from his run, it has been exactly forty-five minutes since he left - Richie notices by the clock in front of the living room couch - and he comes in accompanied by the sound of rustling plastic.

He's carrying three huge shopping bags in one hand and a stack of unopened mail addressed to Richie in the other. The short almost-curls at his forehead are slick with sweat, and he’s still wearing his dumb running shorts that Richie hates to love, feels momentarily guilty for the way they remind him of Eddie’s young legs bumping against his own when they were barely teenagers and how many nights he’d spent thinking about them back then. Teenage boys are disgusting, and Richie used to pride himself on being the most disgusting of them all.

Eddie leaves the letters on the coffee table and makes his way to the kitchen instead. He empties the bags one by one on the kitchen island, dividing his buys in bunches that will be put away together. Richie leans on one of the stools on the other side of the counter and thinks that it must be too much for one person, says as much. “Are you planning on having a party, Spaghetti? Gonna trash the house while the parents are out?” Eddie, as usual, doesn’t answer, doesn't complain about the nickname, and Richie sighs.

Eddie goes for the fridge next, Richie has no idea what he’s going to find there. He doesn’t remember what he’d left behind before the show in Chicago, but he’s pretty sure there can’t be more than a couple of things anyway, seeing as he survived on mostly take-out whenever he was home.

Surely enough, Eddie pulls out two open bottles of ketchup, three closed bottles of beer that he puts back in the fridge, a container of left-over Thai that has gone dangerously mouldy he chucks directly into the bin under the sink, and an open carton of milk that Richie is almost certain he wasn’t the one to drink, but could not tell who he bought it for if asked at gunpoint. Eddie brings it to his nose and flinches at the smell wafting from it, gags, and keeps the container at arm’s length while he moves it to join the leftovers in the garbage. Then, he proceeds to stuff whatever doesn’t need to be washed from its pile on the kitchen island into the desolate fridge.

Richie rests with his elbows on the counter and watches Eddie’s every movement, every quick motion as he rips open some of the packages and sorts the scraps for recycling. The wedding band on Eddie’s ring finger catches the light every time he turns to his left and Richie hasn't noticed it this much until now, feels its presence as if it was a cheap itchy trinket giving him an allergic reaction on his own hand. He wonders briefly why Eddie hasn’t taken it off yet. As much as the question bothers him, he lets the thought drift away on another sigh.

After he’s done with the packaged stuff, Eddie empties the paper bags full of produce in the sink and grabs a box of bicarbonate soda, leaves it on the side while he turns on the water. He reaches for the tomatoes and stops, looking intently down at the sink, hands frozen above the vegetables. Richie leans over the island and looks too, trying to see what Eddie is staring at. “What, dude, did you find worm-” he almost asks but then he understands what Eddie’s looking at, the wedding ring on his left hand. “Ah,” he says lamely instead and pulls back, falling onto the stool again.

Eddie shakes himself out of whatever thought he’d been having and pulls the ring off in a harsh motion that makes Richie tense, his eyebrows are drawn tight on his forehead as he does it. He leaves the golden band next to the box of bicarbonate soda and grabs that instead, muttering incomprehensibly under his breath and sliding a finger under the glued flap to open it. Then, he plugs up the drain and lets the sink fill with water and soda, taking care to turn and wipe each fruit and vegetable under the water and rinse it off under the running tap, putting them aside for drying later.

Richie keeps watching him, his hands, mesmerized by their swift motion. He thinks Eddie must have done this a thousand times, going home to his now ex-wife with handfuls of grocery bags, taking care of himself and her like second nature, without thinking or second-guessing why it has always been so ingrained in his routine. It doesn’t make Richie unhappy or jealous to know he never got that attention from him, he wishes Eddie had lived carelessly instead, like a teenager was supposed to, a college student, and wonders if his habits would have turned out differently if they hadn’t forgotten.

When Eddie is finished rinsing the last vegetable, he pulls out the plug and washes his hands for good measure. He's as harsh as he always is while doing it and Richie still thinks it's overkill, especially after having spent the last ten minutes with his hands submerged in disinfected water. Eddie starts up his weird mumbled chant again, the one Richie hasn't been able to decipher yet, so he drapes himself over the kitchen island, crawls on it to get closer to Eddie as he scratches under his fingernails and all over his palms like he's trying to pull the skin away and hears him count under his breath, "...seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty…" and start up again from one like he can't stop himself, like he can see the dirt in the very fabric of his hands.

"Eddie…" Richie can't stop himself from mumbling as he sits back and covers his face with a hand and a deep sigh. He knows the stains Eddie is seeing, can remember them on his own hands when he tried to keep Eddie's blood inside his chest, watched it flow between his fingers instead.

He wants to reach out, lay his own hands over Eddie's and hold them until the sorrow fades. Wants to shake Eddie gently by the shoulders and tell him, "See, Eds? I'm okay. Not even death can kill me." But the memory of his hand passing through Eddie's body stings fresh in his mind and he knows there are no words he could say that would bring Eddie comfort because Eddie simply can't hear them. Richie is bitter, and angry, and starting to suspect that the only reason he hasn't fallen into the oblivion of death yet is that the turtle is torturing him. He wouldn't find it hard to believe he might deserve the punishment.

 _Eddie's alive_ , he tells himself, and promises to repeat it enough times that it erases his selfishness.

Eddie dries his hands and sends a look to his wedding band, hesitating before turning around without picking it up. Richie pushes down the childishly triumphant feeling in his gut and follows Eddie back to the bedroom.

Once there, Eddie grabs Richie’s phone from the bedside table. Richie watches over his shoulder as he opens the group chat with the Losers and types out a new text. _‘Hey guys, so I guess I’m getting divorced’_ , it reads. Eddie’s thumb hovers over the send button but before he taps on it, he changes his mind and deletes it, sends out a _‘Does everyone still have all their memories?’_ instead. Richie scrunches up his nose and looks at the ceiling, trying to suppress the frustration. It could work better.

Before taking a shower, Eddie makes the bed and folds the clothes he slept in, stuffing them under one of the pillows. Weirdly enough, he doesn’t clear up the things that have been scattered around the room since before Richie left for Derry. He only closes the closet door, carefully pushing a pair of shoes deeper to make sure the door is completely shut. Richie sends a muttered “Thank you” to the ceiling for Eddie not going through his half-assed original material notes. He sits at the foot of the pristinely-made bed and looks on silently as Eddie approaches his duffel bag several times, only to divert to his own luggage to pull out one thing after the other: a laundry travel-bag, clean underwear and socks, a t-shirt and pants to wear later. Richie doesn’t say anything, only thinks back to the anxiety he felt before opening Eddie’s luggage in the first version of this week, the subsequent anger when he found all those pillboxes before stuffing the suitcase away for another time. He gets it. Richie feels suddenly very tired and, not for the first time, he wishes he was alive just so Eddie could lean on him.

In the end, Eddie doesn’t touch Richie’s clothes at all.

He goes back to the living room and takes the letters he’d found outside in hand, skims through them before stopping on a specific one. Richie doesn't need to look at it to remember what it is, but when Eddie flips it around to open it, he immediately recognizes Stan's handwriting. "Here we go," he tells the room at large with a groan while Eddie tears the flap open. 

He pulls the page out and sinks into the couch cushions before reading it. Richie stands behind him, leaning on the backrest and scanning the letter again over Eddie’s shoulders. He cares for it as much as he did the first time around, although the anger has assuaged in the face of Stan’ unsuccessful attempt of joining the afterlife.

It’s obvious that Eddie doesn’t share the same opinion. Close as he is to the side of his face, Richie sees Eddie’s jaw twitch harder with each line he reads, his fingers leaving dents into the paper where he’s crumpling it in his vice-like grip.

“Yeah,” Richie comments as he straightens up with a sigh, “this fucking sucks.”

Eddie finishes the letter and sits back, lowering his forearms to his knees, the note still held in both hands, and keeps his eyes on an undefined spot on the opposite wall. He stays like that for several seconds and Richie just waits for a reaction.

When nothing happens, Richie speaks again. “Eds?” he asks gently and makes his way around the couch and closer to Eddie to try and understand what’s going on.

Before he can sit down next to him, Eddie looks down at the letter and tears it in half with a shaky but forceful motion. He does it again and again, and then one more time for good measure. His mouth is contorted in a furious grimace and his teeth are bared. He lets Stan’s torn words fall to the floor and crumples into himself, bending over his knees and hiding his face in his hands.

Richie stands next to him motionless, hands hanging uselessly by his sides, and just looks at Eddie’s shaking body as he gulps in several painful breaths. His hand itches to reach out and rub Eddie’s back, but he doesn’t move.

When Eddie’s breathing finally slows down, he reaches to the floor and retrieves the pieces of the letter, spreading them carefully on the coffee table with a muttered “Shit.” After he’s made sure that they’re all accounted for, he stands up and makes to the kitchen and Richie almost doesn’t move in time to avoid being passed through. Eddie opens the cabinets one by one, moving the contents around and looking for something.

“Sorry, Eds,” Richie jokes weakly, not sure how much of it really is a joke, “but I don’t think you’re gonna find any working lighters in the house. Maybe you could use the stove?”

What Eddie comes back with, however, is not a lighter but a roll of tape. He sits back down and pulls the pieces toward him, sorting through them and making sure the right sections sit together. When all the words match, he joins them and carefully seals them with the tape. Richie sits next to him and watches, an unsettling wave of emotion he can’t name rises in his chest and tightens his throat. It feels a lot like the nights he spent falling asleep to the murmur of the TV when he came back from tour and the silence was loud enough to keep him awake, but he’s looking at it from the outside and it doesn’t sting him, leaves his tongue dry and bitter in his mouth instead, for Eddie.

Once the letter is back in one piece, Eddie folds it and slides it back into its envelope gingerly. He leaves it in the middle of the coffee table like a post-it note with a reminder for groceries and gets up.

Richie follows after him while Eddie spends the rest of the day puttering around the house. Eddie goes through the living room picking up stuff that Richie didn’t even guess was out of place, finds cleaning supplies that Richie doesn’t remember buying and wipes the counters of the kitchen, the surface of the coffee table, dusts the shelves where Richie keeps his travelling trinkets. When he gets to Richie’s vinyl collection, he pauses, squints at the titles on the LPs and takes an audible breath. Richie leans on the wall next to him and crosses his arms, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Yep, it’s that one,” he says fakely light, “Do you remember it too?” he asks Eddie, and looks at his face for an answer because he already knows Eddie won’t reply to his words.

Eddie’s eyes are soft and sad as he traces a finger over the spine of the paper case, a tiny smile curls at the corners of his lips and the laugh lines at the sides of his eyelids crinkle with the movement. Richie sees his fist go tight around the rag in his left hand and his shoulders hitch infinitesimally higher. _You do remember_ , he thinks, swallows around the knot of melancholy in his throat. _I wonder how it feels for you_ , he ponders but doesn’t say a word.

Eddie closes his eyes and steps back, the moment broken. He turns to the rest of the room and surveys his handiwork, deeming it well done enough that he puts the detergent and the rags back where he found them and goes to pull out a laptop from his bag. He settles on the sofa and Richie falls heavily next to him, lets the _clickity-clack_ of Eddie’s typing dictate the rhythm of his ghostly heartbeat and before he realises, he sinks into the whiteness.

When he opens his eyes, the rigged edge of Maturin’s shell swishes airily next to him, gone before Richie can take a good look. Behind it, the wavy sound of its movement lingers into Richie’s ears, surrounds him from every side like a balm.

“Hey, wait!” Richie calls, walking toward where it disappeared into the distance, uselessly tries to follow it to ask every question he hasn’t found an answer to since he failed to die like he was supposed to, but he doesn’t see Maturin again though he feels its presence and eventually, he just sits cross-legged on the white, shadowless floor and sighs, lets the air rush around him and calm his body. The weariness slowly dissipates from his shoulders, his breathing coming easier with every second he passes in the immaterial space, and when he looks around, the black dot is as distant as it has ever been, and Richie barely notices it.

He gets shaken out of his daze by the sound of clattering dishes and when he looks to where Eddie had been sitting, he finds the spot empty and the laptop still on and abandoned on the coffee table. Music wafts softly from the speakers, too low to make out the words, but Richie thinks he recognizes the melody of an old song he used to know. He brushes a hand over his face, chasing away the white light seared into his eyes, and looks at the clock on the opposite wall. It reads 8:20 PM.

He gets up and makes his way to where Eddie is turning on the stove, a bowl of neatly cut onions and mushrooms waiting on the counter, ready to be tossed into the heating oil in the pan in his hand.

“Aw man, don’t cook yet, Bill’s bringing pizza,” he informs Eddie. But Eddie doesn’t hear him and when he deems the oil hot enough, he tosses the mushrooms in and shakes the pan a couple of times to coat them evenly, lowering the flame slightly and adding salt and pepper before he turns back to the kitchen island where a cutting board and a huge knife are still sitting, shiny with the moisture from the vegetables. He gathers the objects and moves them to the sink, then he opens the fridge behind him and takes out a small container of pre-cut chicken that he puts in their place.

Richie leans on the kitchen counter with one elbow, pressing his face heavily into the palm of his hand and observing Eddie stir the sizzling vegetables as they cook, content to just look at the concentrated expression on Eddie’s face and the shifting muscles of his forearms peaking from underneath the folded sleeves of his hoodie.

Once or twice, Richie will be distracted by his phone vibrating from its place next to the stove at Eddie's elbow and Eddie will bend to look at the screen, Richie following his gaze too and reading only Mike, Ben, or Beverly’s names pop into the notifications of new messages in their group chat but doesn’t pay enough attention to read the content of the texts. Eddie doesn’t either, reads only what he can without unlocking the screen and keeps at his cooking.

Before he can add the chicken into the pan, the doorbell rings acutely from the entrance. Eddie abandons the container to the side and lowers the fire further, wipes his hands with a towel he hanged from the oven door that Richie hadn’t noticed, and makes his way to the door, sending a quick look to the clock in the living room and noting the time.

“Don’t worry Eduardo, it’s just Big Bill,” Richie reassures him while following him to the door.

Surely enough, when Eddie opens the door, Bill is standing on the other side, pizza in hand.

“Hey,” Bill smiles and lifts the bag at his side, “Sorry I d-didn’t text, but I brought dinner.” He seems to be searching for something in Eddie’s eyes, a clue about his state of mind, and when Eddie doesn’t immediately respond, he lifts his eyebrows and continues, lowering his arm, “Unless you’ve already ee-eaten.”

“Not yet,” Eddie replies and gestures for him to come in, “I was just cooking, but I can save it for tomorrow.”

Bill steps inside and they hug briefly, the door closing behind them. He glances down to where Richie had left Eddie's suitcases just a week before, in another version of the present, but there's nothing there to find. Richie wonders just for a split second if somehow Bill knows, but then he looks away and up at Eddie again, and the thought passes as fast as it came.

Eddie tells Bill to go ahead and make himself comfortable, and walks past him to the kitchen to turn off the stove.

“It’s so good to see you, Big Bill,” Richie tells him, and he means it. As unideal as being dead is, Richie is still somewhat glad that he can be there for Eddie but he knows very well that his presence is pretty pointless considering that Eddie doesn’t know he’s there. Bill being there means that Eddie doesn’t have to be so alone all the time, and that’s good enough even if Richie wishes he could be the support Eddie needs.

“Hey, d-did you see the p-pics M-M-Mike sent?” Bill calls from behind him as he pulls out the pizza box and puts it on the coffee table distractedly.

They go back and forth about what the others have been doing in New York while Eddie moves his half-cooked food from the pan into a glass container he fishes from one of the kitchen cabinets. Richie is almost offended at how much faster than him Eddie can find any given thing in his own house, but it also feels unbearably domestic so he tries not to dwell on the thought too much. He listens to them talk, calmer than he’s been since seeing Eddie step foot in his apartment, and wishes he could grab the phone and look at the pictures too.

Eddie comes back from the kitchen carrying two beers and sinks into the cushion next to Bill, he seems calmer too and Richie thinks an intense thank you at Bill, hoping that somehow he will feel it.

Eddie passed Bill the remote to the TV with a “Find something to watch,” and grabs his laptop from the low table to turn off the music before he closes it and puts it aside to grab the pizza box. He opens it and hums appreciatively at the choice of toppings and Bill chuckles, pushing play on a movie that Richie doesn’t remember watching.

He seats himself in the armchair to Eddie’s left as the two eat pizza and drink beer and doesn’t pay much attention to the comments Bill makes here and there during the movie, but relishes in the way they make Eddie laugh every once in a while and closes his eyes, just listening to them talk and basking in the company.

When they’re done with the pizza, Eddie grabs the box and puts it back into the bag, moving it to the floor to throw away later and that’s when Bill notices Stan’s letter still sitting on the coffee table. Richie sees him grab the envelope and turn it around, but he doesn’t pull out the letter. Eddie is watching him too, shoulders tense, and returns his gaze when Bill looks up at him.

“I got it, too,” Bill explains as he puts the letter back down. “G-gotta say, I’ve read b-b-better,” he jokes, but his tone is stiff and his eyes are grim.

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes out. He looks at his hands in his lap and wrings them together and Richie recognises the same motion he made when he still wore his ring in the way he thumbs at his left ring finger like there’s something to pull off.

Neither of them says anything for a couple of minutes, then Bill breaks the silence. “You know I t-t-talked to Bev on the phone,” he tells Eddie with a small smile, “She said she’s started the d-divorce p-proceedings.”

Eddie draws in a shaky breath. Richie sees his lips move around words that don’t come out. He closes his mouth and tries again, “I’m really happy for her.” His smile is small but sincere. _Just tell him_ , Richie thinks loudly, but Eddie doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Bill continues, “And she’s already m-m-moved most of her stuff to B-Ben’s, too. We should v-visit them soon.”

Eddie nods but doesn’t answer and a terse silence falls over them.

“How are you, Eddie?” Bill almost whispers, the question fills the room and settles into the walls.

“I-I don’t-,” Eddie stumbles and grits his teeth as if to keep the words in. “I don’t know,” he finally admits with a rueful shrug, and doesn’t return Bill’s gaze.

It takes a beat before he continues, but Bill doesn’t rush him. “I thought the fear was supposed to go away,” Eddie pushes out, he’s still answering Bill but not looking at him, so lost in his own head that he seems to be rehashing some old conversation he didn’t get to have for all those years they were separated. “But it didn’t. I was afraid of It before, and now I’m afraid my life didn’t suck because I forgot you, maybe it’s just my fault after all.”

“That’s not-” Bill tries to interject, but Eddie continues.

“I’m so mad at Mike,” he says with a joyless laugh at the absurdity, “because he made me remember everything when he called.” He finally looks at Bill. “I didn’t even know my life sucked so much before I remembered,” he shrugs again, “I really didn’t,” he insists, “I was so fucking blind.”

Eddie doesn’t cry, doesn’t shed a single tear in front of Bill, but his voice is shaky and choked when he continues, "Now I'm afraid I'll never get to forget again, that I'll have to live remembering that I was happy, that he was there, and compare it to the rest of my life."

Richie sits rooted to the armchair, his throat is dry and tick and his hands are balled tightly around the knees of his pants. If before he’d felt lost and useless at not being able to touch Eddie, to comfort him, the only thing he feels now is anger. When Bill speaks, he’s shaken out of his sudden fury.

“It’s- It’s gonna t-take some time, Ed,” he says, seems hesitant to touch Eddie but reaches a hand and squeezes his shoulder anyway. “And you’re n-n-not-,” he stutters and tries again, “ _W-we_ ’re not alone anym-more.”

“I know,” Eddie mumbles and pulls back and away from Bill’s touch, putting an end to the conversation.

Bill looks like he wants to say more but he sighs and lets it go, taking another swig from his beer. Eddie does the same.

They turn back to the movie and watch the ending, the chatter they had kept up before the conversation is gone, but Bill keeps sending Eddie looks that Eddie pretends he doesn’t notice, slumping resignedly every time he doesn’t manage to say anything.

When Bill asked him how he was in the other version of this day, Richie had tried telling him about his dreams, but Eddie hasn't seen anything of the sort as far as Richie's aware and so the subject doesn't come up.

Richie wonders what would happen if Eddie ended up in Maturin's void. Would he see Richie's body like Richie had seen his or was that something that only happened because Richie was still so invested in his years-old crush on him?

Mostly, Richie wonders if it would do Eddie any good at all. He still doesn't know if it did for him, can't be sure that getting to hold Eddie's motionless body was any better for his mental state than having the nightmares about Eddie dying in his arms that would have definitely come to him in place of the turtle's limbo. Richie knows with unwavering certainty that Eddie hasn’t been sleeping well. He knows it from the way he felt Eddie shake in his sleep that first night at the Townhouse and the ungodly hours Eddie gets out of bed for his run every morning like he’s fleeing from a monster waiting for him under the covers.

Not much later, when the end credits start filling the screen, Bill looks at his wristwatch and says, “It’s gotten p-pretty late, huh.”

Eddie looks at the clock on the opposite wall and nods. “Yeah...” he trails off and grabs the discarded bag from the floor, standing up.

“Hey, d-d-do you mind if I spend t-the n-night?” Bill asks uncertainly, looking from one of Eddie’s eyes to the other.

Eddie seems taken by surprise by the question but not upset. “Yeah,” he says gently, “sure. There’s a guest bedroom on the left of the corridor,” he explains, “You can start getting changed while I put away this stuff.” He gestures to the empty beer bottles on the coffee table and continues, “You can borrow something to wear to sleep from my stuff in Rich- in the other bedroom if you need.”

“I’ll help with the g-garbage first,” Bill says, “Then you c-can show me the r-room.” He grabs the two empty bottles of beer and follows Eddie to the kitchen, waiting for him to throw away the remains of their dinner.

Richie gets to his feet and stretches with his arms above his head, follows them to his bedroom where Eddie gives Bill a t-shirt and a pair of soft shorts and bids him goodnight before getting into bed himself.

Richie settles next to Eddie on the bed and listens to his breathing in the dark as he falls asleep. He leans against the headboard and closes his eyes several times throughout the night, but doesn’t fall into the void. Eddie’s conversation with Bill must have affected Eddie more than it seemed because every time Richie thinks he’s about to open his eyes to the whiteness of Maturin’s space, he’s pulled back by Eddie shaking and whimpering into the pillow next to him and watches uselessly as Eddie comes down from his nightmares on his own, unable to do anything to help him.

He closes his eyes against the helplessness, purses his lips, and slides his hand as close to Eddie’s as he can without touching him.

When the soft light of dawn peeks through the thin curtains of Richie’s bedroom window, it comes as a welcome respite.

Richie looks at the colour of the sky change and shift, and Eddie stirs next to him as the sun rises slowly over the horizon. He opens his eyes drowsily, groaning with the effort of making himself wake up, and rubs a hand over his face. He sighs and looks up at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, blinking blankly at the dull paint and making no sign of getting up.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Richie greets him weakly, feeling just as drained as Eddie by the restless night.

After two more minutes, Eddie sighs again and rises from his position, pushing the covers aside and getting to his feet on the side of the bed. He goes to check the time on Richie’s phone and curses when he realises he forgot to plug it in to charge before going to sleep and it died at some point during the night. He pulls the cable out from where it’s hanging behind the nightstand and hooks the phone up, waiting to make sure that it starts charging before putting it back down.

Eddie opens the curtains and the window, lets in the crisp morning air, still cool from the night and not sticky with the L.A. day yet. Richie watches him grab clean clothes from one of his suitcases before he walks into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He hears the sound of the shower being turned on and the slide of the shower curtain and closes his eyes, listening to the noises of Eddie just being alive.

He doesn’t know how long it takes Eddie before he reemerges from the bathroom washed and dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. Richie notices that he changed the bandage on his cheek by the new strips of medical tape around it, the corners adhering perfectly to the skin underneath.

He stands and follows Eddie to the living room expecting him to go out on his morning run and come back while Bill still sleeps in the guest bedroom, but Eddie walks to the kitchen instead, opens the windows on his way there, and pulls out the half-cooked mushrooms from the night before and a carton of eggs.

Richie sits at the kitchen island while Eddie finishes cooking the mushrooms and gets another pan out for the eggs. He watches Eddie add them to a bowl with milk, salt, and pepper before mixing them thoroughly and pouring them over the now-sizzling oiled pan. He shakes it vigorously, pushes the eggs from one side to the other until they’re well and truly scrambled and ready to be moved to yet another plate that he covers to keep the contents warm. As the mushrooms keep cooking, Eddie opens the fridge again and exchanges the ingredients for the eggs for a bag of baby spinach, moving some of it to a bowl and proceeding to season that too.

By the time Eddie’s turning off the stove, Richie hears rustling from the corridor and soon enough, Bill joins them in the kitchen, thankfully choosing a different stool than Richie to sit down. He looks like he could have happily used more sleep, but he’s already dressed and the hairs at the edges of his forehead are slightly wet.

“Hey,” Bill croaks out, voice thick and still sleep-rumpled, “Did you sleep well?”

“Fine,” Eddie lies and turns the question back on him, “How about you?”

“Great. The mattress in the guest b-bedroom is the most c-comfortable I’ve ever slept on,” Bill explains with a smile and then jokes, “Might take advantage of it pretty regularly if you don’t mm-mind too much.” Richie can read Bill’s attempt at extending his hand to Eddie in the words, the hope that he won’t pull back.

Eddie hums and forces out a smile, it’s not as bright as it could be, but Richie can tell it’s genuine. “I think Richie would be more than okay with that.” It’s the first time Eddie hasn’t choked on Richie’s name since he died, but his voice is unsteady as he says it and his smile falters, goes a little more strained on Eddie’s lips.

“Honestly, Big Bill,” Richie tries to break the tension when neither of them speaks again and the only sound in the room is the bustling of the city coming in from the windows, “I could be alive and still would not stop you from straight up moving in.”

Of course, the fact that they can’t hear him kind of defeats the purpose of speaking in the first place, but luckily he’s saved from having to sit with more of their intense silence by Eddie announcing, “I made breakfast,” and uncovering the eggs for Bill to dig into.

Eddie grabs three more plates from a cupboard and slides two on the kitchen island, using the third one to move the mushrooms from the pan, and goes to sit on the empty stool next to Bill, who mutters a half-hearted, “You didn’t have to,” and doesn’t wait too long to load his plate of everything available.

More silence settles over the room, but it’s a comfortable one, interrupted by the clinking of cutlery against porcelain as Eddie and Bill eat. Richie leans with his cheek in his hand next to them and looks at the food in Bill’s plate wistfully, wishing he could taste it. When he lifts his eyes to Eddie, he sees the way he keeps moving the eggs around and chewing slowly, only taking small bites at a time. He frowns resignedly, remembering how he’d done the same thing with the salad the last two nights they spent at the Townhouse, but doesn’t comment on it.

Bill is the first to finish. He pushes his plate away slightly and turns to Eddie, who’s taking his sweet time on a bite of spinach.

“So, I w-was wondering,” Bill starts, one of his hands tapping nervously on the countertop. Richie can’t see his face from where he is, but Bill’s voice is low and hesitant. “What are we g-going to ss-say if they ask about R-Richie?” he asks and lifts his head to look into Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie swallows the food in his mouth and lowers the fork in his hand into the plate carefully, using the movement as an excuse not to return Bill’s gaze. His shoulders tense up, it’s the smallest of gestures but concentrated as he is on him, Richie sees it clearly.

“I haven’t talked to the others yet,” Eddie replies, tone determinedly flat, “but I think we should just say that the building collapsed and we didn’t all make it out before it did.”

Bill nods slightly and sighs. “Right,” he says, then, “I g-guess no one would believe we were t-trying to kill a m-murder c-clown from space.”

Eddie snorts, it’s not a sound of amusement, and only gets pulled out of him at the unexpectedness of Bill’s answer. His face remains as grim as ever and he doesn’t seem at all excited at the prospect of having to face that hypothetical conversation. Richie can’t exactly blame him. He suspects the only reason he didn’t have to confront the technicalities surrounding Eddie’s death was that the others took care of it without telling him, but Eddie was the one to put himself in the middle of it this time around so Richie can’t put on Bill all the responsibility for involving Eddie in the matter.

He sighs. Just like Eddie, he’s also not looking forward to finding out what happens when your childhood best friend gets killed by an eldritch horror and you have to lie about the reason why his body can’t be recovered.

“I’ll talk to t-the others about it,” Bill offers, “And I can come buh-back later to go through the bureaucracy together if y-y-you want.” Eddie nods and Bill squeezes his shoulder before letting his hand fall away so he can look at his wristwatch. “I have to m-meet my editor now, but I c-can b-bring dinner again,” he says and gets to his feet.

Eddie stands too, follows behind him as they get to the door.

“I left your clothes on the g-guest bed,” Bill says when they’re at the entrance, “Ss-sorry if I d-don’t help you clean up.”

“It’s alright,” Eddie tells him, “I’m still eating anyway.”

Bill smiles and pulls him in for a quick hug before he opens the front door and leaves with a small wave. 

Eddie watches him go for a moment, closes the door behind him and gets back to the kitchen, sitting down in front of his food again. He grabs the fork and moves the food around some more, makes himself take another bite but after that, he just pushes the plate aside still half-full and gets up to get rid of his and Bill’s dishes.

Richie occupies the hours before Bill comes back by sitting in the armchair next to Eddie and listening to him work on his laptop some more, the same playlist from the day before drifts softly from the speakers. He thinks he almost sinks into Maturin’s void a couple of times but gets shaken out of it by a feeling of alertness he’s not sure of the reason for and listens to Eddie speak on the phone of boring risk analysis details instead, not caring much about the words he’s saying but letting the sound of his voice wash over him.

He thinks he hears Eddie say his manager’s name at one point, but can’t be completely sure because Eddie walks out to the balcony of the living room for that particular conversation and Richie doesn’t follow after him, preferring to steer clear of the minutiae of his own deathly affairs if he can help it. No one ever gets to know what happens when they die, what the people left behind say about it, and Richie has already gotten to see more than anybody else ever could in that regard, he will not seek it any further when he finally gets a choice in the matter. He hums along to the song that’s still playing and tries to fill his ears with the murmur of his own voice to tune out Eddie’s just for this once.

When Eddie ends the call and gets back inside, the look on his face is stony and stricken and it makes something squeeze in Richie's chest. He realizes very quickly that it's guilt and wishes he could apologize, that Eddie could hear it. He wishes he could tell him that Eddie doesn't owe him this, that all Richie wants is for him to be happy and forget that he died, forget that he existed if it makes things easier. It's unfair, Richie would have punched anyone who said that to him when Eddie died in the face, but it doesn't matter because even if Richie was capable of saying the words - let alone believe them -, Eddie wouldn't be able to hear them. 

Around lunchtime, Eddie gets up and goes to the fridge, but instead of pulling something out and cooking it, he surveys the food and closes the door empty-handed, gets back to his busy laptop screen with an apple from a bowl on the kitchen counter that he places on the coffee table and promptly forgets to eat.

When Bill comes back, Eddie is still tapping away at his computer, an increasingly frustrated expression on his face. He stands from the couch to open the front door, muttering under his breath about incompetence and idiots, and he lets Bill inside.

"I hope you're huh-up for Italian," Bill announces, a box of takeout in one hand and a messenger bag in the other.

“Hey, thanks,” Eddie replies distractedly, already walking back into the living room and leaving Bill to close the door behind him. “Do you mind if we heat it up later?” he asks over his shoulder, turning quickly back to his work, “I really need to finish this.”

Bill doesn’t seem too bothered by Eddie’s flippancy. “Yeah, sure,” he says and leaves the food on the kitchen counter to make his way next to Eddie, “It’s still t-too early to eat anyway.” Eddie scoots over slightly to make more space for him on the sofa without taking his eyes off the screen and Bill pulls out his computer too, much more leisurely, and rests it on his knees while he writes away, reading glasses perched on his nose.

After what seems like five days but can’t be more than five minutes of their synchronized working, Richie feels about ready to lose his mind out of boredom. He gets up with a groan and looks around the room with his hands on his hips. “Alright,” he announces, “time to wreak havoc.”

What that means is that Richie spends the next half hour singing at the top of his lungs, trying to push breakable objects off high shelves and generally making a nuisance of himself if he was able to be heard. He doesn’t know why he’s waited so long to experiment the limits of his current situation, but _Now’s as good a time as any_ , he thinks and concentrates harder when his efforts to make his presence known remain fruitless.

It doesn’t work. His limbs keep passing through anything he touches and no matter how loudly and purposefully he shouts or how irritating the tune he sings is, nothing will make neither Eddie nor Bill so much as send him a second glance. He sighs and tries to get closer, chooses Eddie’s laptop as the next target of his unsuccessful destruction but before he can even reach for it, Richie’s phone that is currently in Eddie’s possession vibrates loudly from the coffee table, Beverly’s name and number filling the screen with a call.

“Oh, _yes_!” Richie beams.

Eddie looks away from the laptop screen just long enough to read her name and grabs the phone blindly, bringing it to his ear. “Hey, Bev,” he greets her half-heartedly, his attention already back to the data on the computer. Bill glances up at the sound of Beverly’s name and stops writing, but doesn’t seem particularly worried by the call.

“Eddie,” Beverly’s voice resounds from the phone, thick with urgency. Her tone finally manages to make Eddie stop his typing and look away from his work. “Is Bill with you?”

“Yeah, he’s here,” Eddie answers hesitantly, already worrying, “What happened?”

“Put me on speaker,” Beverly orders and then explains, “You both need to hear this.”

Eddie does as he’s told, putting his phone between him and Bill, who pushes his computer off his knees and onto the coffee table and sits closer to Eddie with a frown.

“Hey, Bev,” Bill says to let her know he’s listening, “What’s g-going on?”

“Bill, hi,” she greets him and then, without a warning, “Stan is alive.”

“Wh-wh-what?” Bill stammers out, and incredulous sort of smile that looks more like a grimace on his face.

“What do you mean?” asks Eddie, ignoring him, “You spoke to his wife, she said-”

“I know!” Beverly almost yells, then lower, “I know,” she repeats. Her voice is high and she’s panting like she can’t get the words out fast enough. “His wife, Patricia, just called me. She still had my number since I called her when we were in Derry,” she explains, exhilarated and disbelieving at the same time, “When we talked back then, Stan had been taken to the hospital. The doctors were sure he wouldn’t make it but then he did. He was asleep for a few days but he woke up this morning and he’s going to get better.” Her voice starts shaking and Richie can hear the tears in her tone, but they’re the good kind. “Guys,” she insists, “he’s going to be okay,” and laughs around a sob.

“But...” Eddie trails off, his eyes are glazed over and he’s not looking at the phone or Bill anymore.

Richie steps in front of him and crouches down, trying to look into his eyes. He closes his hands into fists and rests them on his knees to resist the urge to touch Eddie. "It's really happening, Eds," he speaks softly but confidently, "Stan is alive, you can be happy," he insists. _Why aren’t you happy?_ he thinks.

Bill gazes up at Eddie, waiting for him to say more but when Eddie closes his mouth with a hard expression instead, he glances down at the phone again and says, “We _hh-h-have_ to go see him.”

“Yes, absolutely,” she agrees excitedly, “Mike is still staying with us, and Ben is already booking the tickets to Atlanta. We’ll try to be there by morning.”

"Okay, good," Bill confirms, "We'll d-do the same." He turns to Eddie again, looking for confirmation, but Eddie's eyes are glued to the phone and his expression is closed off. "We'll let you know what t-time we get there. Ss-see you at the airport," he finishes and waits for Eddie to close the call before speaking again. "D-do you think th-this is r-real?" he asks him. 

Eddie shakes his head slightly and lifts one of his shoulders. It's not a no, but it's definitely not a yes either. "I don't know, Bill," he elaborates.

Neither of them says anything for a beat until finally, Eddie speaks again. "What if it's Pennywise?" he asks hesitantly, voice low as if even the thought pains him, and it probably does. "And if it isn't," he continues, "if Stan really is alive then why not…? " he trails off without finishing. _Why not Richie?_ is what he's asking. 

"I don't-" Bill tries to answer. He sighs and swallows, "I don't know, Eddie," he says resignedly, "But we have to go anyway. I'll l-l-look for tickets."

They find a flight that leaves later in the evening and will get them to Atlanta in about five hours. Bill sends a text in the group chat to let the others know, then he packs his computer and hugs Eddie goodbye to go home and gather some clothes for the trip.

Richie follows Eddie as he swaps some of the items in the smallest of his suitcases and gets changed, hops after him into the car that will take them to the airport just in time not to get the car door slammed through his body. 

Eddie sits uncharacteristically still on the frayed leather seat with his hands in his lap. He doesn’t move a muscle, save from the wringing of his hands, the nervous motion he can’t seem to shake of fingering for a ring that isn’t there anymore. 

Richie makes the opposite picture next to him, alternating between looking outside the window and Eddie every few seconds. The ride to the airport feels endless and he is trapped by the heavy air of the cramped car. He keeps tapping his nails restlessly on any solid surface he can reach, the handle of the door, the fabric of the seat, the plastic bit between the lenses of his glasses. His knee bounces up and down on the carpeting at the foot of the backseat and the excitement makes him feel like he’s seconds away from shaking right out of his body, even though he currently doesn’t technically have one. If Eddie could hear him, he would be getting increasingly irritated at his fidgeting, but as things stand, he doesn’t do anything at all, keeps looking outside at the passing scenery.

Richie keeps up his nervous squirming for the entire five hours of the flight, is so engrossed in the thought of seeing Stan again, of being reunited with all the others, that he forgets to mind when the other passengers walk straight through him where he’s standing in the aisle next to Bill and Eddie’s seats. He hadn’t even registered he had been worrying about it, but now that he knows Stan is alive in this reality too, he realises he didn’t know for certain whether his choice of taking Eddie’s place would have made a difference in the other Losers’ lives too. He’s beyond glad that is not the case.

Bill and Eddie hardly speak for the duration of the journey. Bill keeps sending worried glances Eddie’s way and opening his lips like he wants to say something, only to close his mouth without a word shorty after. Eddie, for his part, barely faces him at all, too lost in his own thoughts.

When they finally arrive in Atlanta, it’s four in the morning. Ben, Beverly, and Mike are already waiting for them at the airport and none of them has slept a wink. They’re all over each other the minute they’re close enough to reach and the excitement of Stan being alive is palpable in the air. Even though Richie can tell that the situation still doesn’t feel real, they can’t help the happiness that simmers in their touches as they hug. The sheer relief of getting Stan back like a missing limb of the body that is the Losers club is the same Richie felt the first time around, and now that Eddie is alive and well too, nothing can abate the joy that fills his lungs. He looks at Eddie, hoping to find that happiness mirrored in his eyes, but all he can see there is the helplessness that he can still clearly remember feeling from knowing that their group would never be whole again, and for the first time since making the trade of his life for Eddie’s, he wishes there had been a third choice. He stomps the thought down quickly, suppresses the selfishness that comes with it and stubbornly decides to concentrate on the thought of Stan being alive instead, telling himself and trying to believe that in time, Eddie will be happier.

They get rooms in the same hotel they did the week before, not too far from the hospital where Stan is staying, and separate to try and make good of the couple of hours of sleep they can get before it’s time to go visit him.

Richie follows Eddie in the same hotel room that had been given to him and wonders when he stopped considering following someone other than Eddie a possibility. Deep down he suspects it was never an option in the first place, that the very fact that he didn't stop existing like he was supposed to after dying always meant that Eddie would be his unfinished business, the very thing keeping him clinging tooth and nail to the last shred of life the turtle has allowed him. He tries to stop hearing the ticking clock that must surely be counting down the time he has left before he absolutely has to go, and sits on the empty side of the bed next to Eddie as he closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

It’s at least another hour before Eddie’s breathing slows down and goes quiet and Richie just gazes at him, keeps watch over his exhausted and dreamless sleep and wishes he could reach out to feel his heartbeat against his fingertips just once. He really doesn’t want to go.

Eddie wakes up with a jolt what can’t be more than an hour later. He shakes out of his sleep and looks frantically around the room before remembering where he is and falling back into the mattress with a tired sigh. He grabs Richie’s phone from the bedside table to check the time but doesn’t try to go back to sleep even when he sees that it is still much too early to be awake. Richie looks at him without a word and sees Eddie look up the visitation times for Stan’s hospital on the phone.

He puts it back down with another sigh and finally heaves himself up and out of bed, going into the bathroom and starting his usual routine which thankfully doesn’t include his morning run.

Richie follows Eddie to the still deserted lounge of the hotel and thinks briefly of going to check on the others in their rooms, but dismisses the idea when he realises they’re probably still asleep.

It doesn’t take long before Beverly joins them downstairs. By then, Eddie is pacing in front of the windows overlooking the street outside, phone pressed to his ear, talking animatedly into it and trying to suppress his rising voice. “No, I won’t change my mind,” he repeats for the third time, “It’s over Myra, I already sent you the papers. Please, stop trying to contact me.”

Richie is trying, with very little success, to tune out the conversation and feels instantly relieved when he sees Beverly walk hesitantly toward Eddie, who hasn’t noticed her presence yet. When he does, he freezes mid-sentence, an alarmed look taking over his expression. “I need to go,” he cuts the conversation short, and doesn’t wait for an answer before ending the call and pocketing the phone.

“Is everything okay?” Beverly asks, approaching him carefully like she’s afraid to spook him. “That sounded intense,” she smiles uncertainly.

“It’s- I-” Eddie hesitates, “I’m getting a divorce,” he blurts out seemingly without meaning to. “Please don’t tell the others yet.”

“I won’t,” Beverly shakes her head gently, “I promise.” She steps closer to him and wraps him in a tight hug. Eddie lifts his arms to return it and his shoulders drop with relief. “Thank you for telling me,” Beverly tells him when she lets him go, “I’m here if you want to talk.”

Eddie forces out a small smile, Richie can read the guilt underneath it. “You too, Bev,” he returns, “I’m sorry I didn’t… You know, before-”

“It’s okay,” she interrupts him with a squeeze of his shoulder, “I get it.”

Eddie smiles again and falls silent, looking around at the slowly filling hotel floor nervously.

“Thank you, Beverly,” Richie means it, even though he knows he won’t be heard.

“So,” Beverly breaks the silence, “Bill and Mike are already up, they’re waiting on Ben while he finishes getting ready.” She gestures to her phone then and adds, “I was going to call Patricia and see if Stan is awake yet.”

“Good idea,” Eddie nods and looks on as she brings the phone to her ear.

Just as Beverly is finishing the call, Bill, Mike and Ben emerge from the elevator and see them, immediately making their way over. “Hey, Eddie,” Bill greets him cheerfully, “All r-ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Eddie answers, and Beverly nods too.

“Patricia says we can go anytime,” Beverly explains, “Should we just head out now?”

“Maybe we could grab food on the way?” Mike suggests as they make their way to the entrance, Richie following closely behind with his hands in his pockets, “I’m kind of starving for breakfast and Stan might be happy to eat something that isn’t hospital food.”

“That’s a good idea,” Eddie agrees, “Hospital food is shockingly low in nutritional value.”

Beverly falls into step next to Ben and slides a hand into his while she uses the other to take her phone out again and look for the closest bakery. “We can pick something up on the way,” she says, “there’s a small café a few shops from the hotel.”

“Don’t forget the strawberry pastries,” Richie volunteers, “If Stan finds out none of you remembered without me, he will and _should_ give you a hard time about it.”

They stop at the same shop they found one week before and buy coffee for everyone, Stan and Patricia included, grabbing just as many cream and sugar packets they already did once, that is to say way too many for just the seven of them. Just as Richie suspected, without his input they don’t remember Stan’s love of strawberry-filled pastry, but among the many sweets they buy, Richie notices there are at least two in that flavour and he’s sure Stan won’t hesitate to claim them for himself as soon as he sets eyes on them.

The rest of the walk to the hospital is filled with excited energy, their chatter lively and at times too loud for a public place. It feels like going back to being thirteen through the streets of Derry, when they would ride their bikes and shout jokes and laughs at each other the entire way without a care for any adult that would yell at them to pipe down. Richie lets their zest wash all over him and fill him up but when he looks at Eddie, he notices that he isn’t quite as lively. He’s smiling, but it’s not as bright as the others and he keeps looking down at his feet as he walks.

Richie slows down enough to fall into step with him. “Hey, come on, Spaghetti,” he spurs him on without touching him, “Cheer up! Stan will be pissed if he sees you’re not as happy as you should be that he’s alive.” He knows it’s a lie, and he also knows what Eddie’s thinking. _Why can’t it be all of us?_ He knows because he thought the same when he found out that Stan was alive even though Eddie wasn’t, and the feeling won’t go away so easily as by being told by someone else, even if it was someone Eddie could actually hear. Still, Richie doesn’t like seeing Eddie this way, never has, and wishes that just like when they were kids and it was enough to make a gross joke for Eddie to instantly feel better, he could do the same now.

They get to the hospital and make their way to Stan’s room after Bill asks for the room number and floor and tells the nurse at the reception that they’ve been contacted by Patricia Uris. A sombre silence settles over the elevator as it climbs slowly to the right floor. Richie looks at his friends, sees apprehension in the way Beverly and Ben hold each other’s hands a little too tight, the way Bill keeps looking between Mike and the elevator buttons like he wants to jump out before they reach Stan's floor, the way Mike doesn’t look at the others at all, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor in front of his shoes. It feels like a very strange deja-vu until he looks up at Eddie and doesn’t mind at all that he has no memory of him wringing his hands through the elevator ride, because it means he did manage to change their future, and Eddie being there is better than knowing exactly what’s about to happen. Richie’s hands twitch around nothing, his skin itches to reach out but he stands still and reigns it in.

The ding of the elevator announces that the doors are about to open and it is time to get out, and Richie doesn’t dare say a word to break the silence they drag through the corridor as they make their way to Stan’s room, even though he wants to scream and jump, yell at them that they get Stan back, no need to wait and see him to believe it!

They approach Stan’s open door slowly and slip inside one by one, Bill right ahead. Stan freezes where he sits as soon as he sees them and his eyes flicker from one to the other before turning to Patricia, looking for confirmation that he’s not just imagining them. She nods and smiles in return and Richie can see the tears start to gather in Stan’s eyes.

Richie is standing so close to Eddie’s side that he can feel him tremble slightly even before he looks over to see his reaction. Eddie is looking straight at Stan, staring intensely first at his face and then at the bandages on his wrists. A muscle in his cheek shifts as his jaw clenches, teeth pressed so tight that Richie seriously worries it’ll do lasting damage. Before he can stop himself, Richie reaches out to wrap a hand around Eddie’s, closed in an iron fist by his side. It goes right through the skin and Richie jerks back, berating himself for forgetting.

He turns back to Stan when he hears Patricia breathe out a soft “I’ll leave you guys some space,” and make her way past them, closing the door behind her as she leaves.

Stan takes in each of their faces, his eyes jumping from Bill to Mike, to Ben, to Beverly, to Eddie and back again, and Richie sees the moment he comes short of one person in the way his watery smile drops just the tiniest bit, as if he’s still hoping to be told that Richie is just outside the door and waiting to make his grand entrance.

“Where’s Richie?” he asks and looks to Eddie for an answer. Richie follows his gaze and sees Eddie shake his head slightly and turn around and mechanically making his way out the door before anybody says another word. Richie watches him go, too astonished to follow after him as he goes. “Bill?” Stan asks again.

“A l-l-lot happened,” he says, “Stan, he...” Bill stammers and doesn’t finish.

“Richie didn’t make it,” Mike explains in his stead, his voice trembles slightly and when Richie looks at him he sees guilt all over his features.

“Oh, no, Mike,” Richie protests, “That was all me.” He hadn’t even thought that just like when Eddie was the one to die, Mike would feel responsible for Richie’s death too. But he’s the only one who knows how things really went, that he _chose_ to die in Eddie’s place and how that was the only possibility for Eddie to make it out alive. And even if that hadn't happened and Richie had been the one to die from the beginning, Richie was still the person who convinced Eddie to follow them into It’s lair, to encourage him to take stupid risks and therefore he’s the only one responsible for his own death. Despite the time he’s had to examine what went on under Neibolt, first after Eddie’s death and again now that he can’t do anything else but think, he still doesn’t blame any of the others for how things ended. Richie made a choice, he doesn’t regret it for one minute, not in the face of Eddie being alive.

Stan doesn’t respond. He lowers his eyes and looks at the bandaged wounds on his wrists, hands in his lap. His smile is gone, the corners of his lips are turned downward in its place and he seems incredulous, in denial. He sighs and closes his eyes, looks at the shut door Eddie just left through and grimaces slightly.

“How are you feeling?” Beverly finally breaks the heavy silence that surrounds them. “All things considered.”

“I’m-” Stan hesitates, swallows down the scratchiness in his throat and tries again, “I’m so sorry.”

Richie doesn’t stay to listen to the rest of his apology, already knowing what Stan is about to say. He turns to the closed door instead and braces himself to pass through it and find Eddie. He steps out and sees him a few feet ahead, where the rows of rooms end and a window opens over the street underneath, makes his way to him.

Eddie is standing with his arms crossed, gazing through the glass with a heavy frown between his brows.

Richie moves next to him and leans on the wall next to the window to look at his face, trying to read his thoughts in his expression. 

Eddie doesn’t move, he just keeps staring outside without really seeing anything and doesn’t show any sign of wanting to go back to Stan’s room. He stands there and keeps clenching and unclenching his jaw, his expression unchanging.

Richie sighs and scrubs a hand over his eyes under his glasses, slumping further into the wall. “You know, Eds,” he pushes out on a whisper, “You can be happy. You don’t owe me this.”

Eddie shakes his head and lowers his eyes, and for just a second, Richie thinks he heard him. Then, his breath comes out on a quivery exhale and he turns around, Richie scrambling after him as Eddie makes his way back to Stan’s room.

When they get back, the others are already digging into the bag of pastries they brought with them, and the air in the room has lifted and brightened with the familiar rhythm of their childhood eagerness. Eddie walks in quietly, but when Stan spots him, he falls silent and the others follow close behind, their chattering fading into a mumble and then a hush.

Eddie swallows and Richie notices that everyone’s eyes are on him now. “You should pick first,” Eddie tells Stan, “You’re the one in the hospital bed.” It’s a small one, yet enough of a reassurance for the smile to return to Stan’s mouth.

“You were always the sensible one, Kaspbrak,” Stan replies, “After me, at least.”

Richie breathes a sigh of relief behind Eddie and only just realises he’d been holding his breath, or at least the impression of it that he instinctively keeps up.

Eddie steps to the bed and gathers Stan in a tight hug, Richie sees Stan’s eyes close in a painful expression over Eddie’s shoulder before he lifts his arms and returns the embrace, the gauzes around his forearms are a stark white against the dark fabric of Eddie’s jacket. He lingers just a moment longer before they break apart and the chatter of the Losers fills the room again.

When Patricia comes back, they offer her food and coffee and make sure everyone has a place to sit in the room, taking turns for the spot on the empty strip of mattress next to Stan.

They talk and they laugh, and it is easier than it has been so far for Richie to imagine that they know he’s there. There’s enough noise that he can pretend the reason they don’t respond to what he says is that everyone is talking all over everybody else and it’s not because he’s a ghost in the middle of a crowded family. Even though he tries not to feel it, it stings anyway, it stings the most when he so badly wants to lean against Eddie’s side, nudge him with an elbow every time he makes a joke that he believes deserves him an annoyed sigh or a roll of Eddie’s eyes. But when the urge strikes him the hardest, he sees his hand go through Eddie’s skin again and retracts his arm into himself instead, still feeling a bit too raw to try and brush off the disappointment it would certainly give him if he attempted to reach out again.

Their reunion is interrupted around lunchtime, when a nurse comes into the room to bring Stan his food. Ben proposes at least a couple of them go out to buy something to eat to bring back, and Beverly and Bill are, once again, the ones to volunteer. Stan also manages to convince Patricia to head home for a few hours, to give her a chance to rest somewhere that isn’t the uncomfortable hospital chair where she’s been spending every night since Beverly first heard from her when they were still in Derry.

As Beverly, Bill, and Patricia make their way out, Mike asks for a moment of time alone with Stan, so Eddie and Ben join them too, leaving Mike some space and closing the door behind them as they leave. Richie has already made up his mind not to follow the others on their errand, needing the time alone to try and clear his head, so he only walks with them as far as out the door, but doesn’t make his way to the elevator when they do. He’s obviously happy that Stan is alive, ecstatic that Eddie gets to experience it too, but being ignored has been taking a toll on him now that there are a lot more people doing it, and he feels like he needs the headspace before he can go back in and do it all over again.

Richie leans with his back on the wall against the door to Stan’s room. He can hear Mike’s deep voice through it, but he’s not actively trying to parse the words and they only reach his ears in deep, grave murmurs. He thinks of responsibility, and he thinks of fault and wonders if Eddie blames any of them for what happened to Richie, he certainly hopes that is not the case, but suspects he might be wrong if the reaction to Stan’s words is anything to go by. Eddie was always anger and fear as a child, and as an adult too as far as Richie has seen, and very often one would cancel out the other. But Richie knows why he is that way: when their memories were ripped from them, so was the knowledge that they had more than fear, that they had conquered and squashed it by being with one another even before It tried to split them up, and Richie can only hope that having Stan again will remind Eddie of everything he can have.

Richie isn’t sure he wants to be there for it. Sure, being able to actually see Eddie alive, to know and have the evidence that he did the right thing when he made the trade with Maturin makes it worth the sacrifice, but he’s starting to feel like he’s going a little crazy every time any of the others looks right through him. Mostly, he’s scared that he’ll forget what it means not to be invisible and that he’ll stop feeling anything altogether, not just the physical touch of something in his hands.

Part of him wants to be there when they get to know each other again, when Patricia inevitably becomes part of their ragtag little family and they finally catch up to all the life apart they’ve missed, but he also knows that as hard as he wants it, it will never be for him. They’ll eventually find a new rhythm, and Richie won’t be part of it because people move on, and he can’t bear the thought of having the only family he’s ever known be ripped from him a third time. He thinks the turtle will eventually tell him that he has to go, that the time he has to follow his friends around has finally run out, he just doesn’t know when it’ll happen. He can’t know for certain whether leaving now or having more time with them before getting permanently dragged away from life would be better. On one hand, if he were to leave now, he would be going without the knowledge that Eddie - no, that all of them, will go on to be happier, but having more time only means that he’ll come to resent the fact that he will never be a part of their future and they can be happy even without him.

Richie wants to ask the turtle how much time he has, why it was given to him in the first place, but he’s afraid that the next time Maturin appears to him, it’ll be to bring him away. Although there’s another suspicion there too, a small, quiet one that Richie hasn’t been able to put into a solid shape yet, which tells him he’s not finished, there’s something he needs to do.

He tries to let the mumble of Mike’s voice distract him from his confused thoughts and when that doesn’t work, he wishes he could have his phone with him, to scroll mindlessly through their group chat or be absorbed in the trivial matters of someone else’s life on social media. It’s the ping of the elevator that finally pulls him out of his head, announcing the return of Eddie, Beverly, Ben, and Bill.

They come carrying a small plastic bag each, and Richie doesn’t recognise the logo that displays a prominent _‘Organic’_ in the name of the shop.

“D-d-do you think they’re done in there?” Bill asks the others, gesturing to Stan’s door with his free hand.

Ben leans with his ear against the door and concentrates on the sounds coming from inside, which Richie can’t hear anymore. “I think they are,” he tells them and knocks gently against the plastic. At Stan’s quiet “Come in,” he opens the door and steps aside to let the others in first, ever the gentleman.

Bill makes his way inside and Eddie waits for Beverly to go first, but she takes the bag from him instead and hands it and hers to Ben, giving him a small smile and a nod to go ahead before pulling the door closed behind him.

Richie sees Eddie’s back go rigid when Beverly turns to him and briefly considers giving them the privacy they obviously want. He doesn’t, though, because he’s curious to know what Beverly will say and considering he’s already crossed every possible line when Eddie’s personal matters are concerned, he doesn’t think this one will make much of a difference anyway.

“Eddie, I-” Beverly hesitates but doesn’t lower her eyes from Eddie’s. “I just-” she tries again, frowning to herself like she’s frustrated she can’t get the words out. She takes a deep breath and sets her chin and finally says, “How are you coping with everything?”

Eddie reels back, surprised by the directedness of her question, and his hands close into empty fists where they’re hanging by the sides of his thighs. Richie isn’t surprised that the conversation is happening, especially after Eddie told Beverly about his divorce not that much earlier in the morning. He looks into Eddie’s face too and waits for his answer with bated breath. Eddie’s expression goes sad before it hardens into a carefully held-back mask, but Richie can see the discomfort clearly, Eddie never did have a very good poker face, especially not to him.

Beverly steps closer to Eddie and touches his cheek gently, the uninjured one, cautious like she’s not sure he will welcome the touch. Eddie closes his eyes and his expression turns painful, and under her touch, Richie can see him start trembling slightly. When Beverly speaks next, Eddie opens his eyes again and returns her gaze.

“He would want you to be happy,” she tells him, her touch becomes more insistent and she looks intently into his eyes, making sure that the words sink in, “I know it’s hard right now,” she doesn’t hesitate, “but you have to try, Eddie, you owe him that much.”

Richie hisses in a breath at the same time that Eddie looks away, lowering his gaze to the floor and swallowing painfully, his eyes are shiny and his lips quiver.

Beverly doesn’t speak for a moment and doesn’t take her hand from his cheek, letting her thumb brush kindly over the slope of his cheekbone. Richie wishes he could do the same. Then, she moves her hand slowly to his chin and nudges him lightly, prodding him to look at her again before she continues. “You deserve good things, Eddie,” she insists, “And we all want to be part of that, of your life, if you’ll let us.”

“She’s right, you know,” Richie speaks softly, so quiet that he doubts they would hear him even if he was alive.

Eddie nods, the tiniest of movements, and doesn’t say anything.

Beverly circles his neck with her arms and pulls him into her in a strong embrace. He hugs her back, gripping tightly into the fabric of her blouse and sniffing slightly although he doesn’t cry. 

When Beverly steps back, her gaze has gone sullen and hesitant. She takes Eddie’s hands into hers and waits for him to look at her before she speaks again. “I didn’t-” she starts, takes a deep breath and tries again, “I didn’t know, Eddie. I didn’t see him.” Her voice isn’t louder than a whisper.

Eddie looks at her with confusion, “What do you mean?”

“In the deadlights,” she explains, “I didn’t see Richie die,” her voice shakes on his name, “not like that. I only saw what happened if we didn’t go back.”

“Bev...” Richie sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“I know, Bev,” Eddie reassures her, “I know you didn’t-”

“I would have said something, done something,” she rushes out before he can say more, her hands are vicelike around Eddie’s and her arms are shaking visibly. “I mean it, Eddie, I wouldn’t-” she stutters and swallows down a sob. She doesn’t cry but it’s a close thing. “I wouldn’t have let him go in there if I’d known.” She shakes her head vigorously and doesn’t stop looking at Eddie, searching his eyes.

Eddie untangles his hands from hers gently and takes her face between his palms, wiping away the wetness from the corners of her eyes before he leans into her and kisses her forehead, and Beverly collapses into his chest and finally starts crying.

When Richie looks at Eddie’s face, his eyes are closed and his eyebrows are pinched, the dimples at the corners of his mouth deep with the downturn of his lips.

Beverly steps back after a couple of seconds and palms away the tear tracks on her cheeks. Eddie brushes back her hair and lowers his head so he can look into her eyes and attempt a reassuring smile. It’s a small, fragile thing, but Beverly returns it all the same and squeezes his hand on the side of her face with hers before they separate.

“You should call me, if the divorce-” she hesitates, “You know, if things get hard. I want you to call me.”

Eddie nods, “You too, Bev.”

She looks from one of his eyes to the other and finally nods too, satisfied with what she finds there. “Ready to head back in?” she asks him, and Eddie nods again slightly before gesturing for her to go in first.

It’s quiet inside. Bill has an arm thrown over Mike’s hunched shoulders and on his other side, Stan is touching one of Mike’s forearms gently, smiling up at him. Ben stands close too, not enough to reach out but enough to send an encouraging smile Mike’s way, who’s surreptitiously rubbing away the wetness on his cheeks. Beverly approaches the bed and reaches over to give his hand a delicate squeeze. Eddie stops at the other side of Stan and completes their small circle. 

Richie stays behind, just inside the door, and his chest tightens with longing.

They stay at the hospital until visitation hours are over, trying to catch up on whatever life they can with the small amount of time at their disposal. They’re not worried, though, the atmosphere has relaxed exponentially since they first arrived, and they seem to know that there’s no rush to share everything in one go. They have time now, nothing’s going to break them apart again, and the relief is as palpable as the slowly setting sunlight streaming in through the window. 

Richie doesn’t speak much this time, is content to just sit at the foot of Stan’s bed and listen to the others talk about their lives, what they’ve been doing since they got back from Derry and how sometimes they get random memories at the weirdest of times and it doesn’t much feel like they’re just remembering but more like it’s something they always knew but was just out of reach.

They talk about him too, tell Stan that he was a comedian, say his name more than once but every time, Richie tries to tune them out, looks away so he doesn’t have to see their faces turn sad and regretful. They don’t seem to be able to linger on him too long either, because they always move on very quickly, hanging onto the smallest pretext to change the subject and talk about something else. Richie is grateful for it even though they don’t know they’re doing him a favour.

So they spend the afternoon and then the evening there, and at one point, Patricia calls Beverly’s phone, asking to speak with Stan. He insists that he’s alright and tries to convince her to sleep at home just for today so she can have a decent night’s rest, but she’s unwavering and promises to be back not too much later.

There are moments when the conversation suddenly wanes, a sullen silence filling the room in its place, and it’s then that he wishes he could do what he does best and crack a joke, make them all laugh or groan, and he can tell that they’re thinking the same thing. It’s in one of those moments that Beverly suddenly asks for a few minutes alone with Stan and they make their way out, giving them space and making use of the time to look for a coffee machine.

When visitation hours are almost over and it’s time to leave, they go reluctantly, their goodbyes getting off track more than once, and Richie can tell that none of them is willing to separate and go back to their hotel rooms yet. They make plans to go for drinks again, promise Stan once more that they’ll bring him and Patricia with after he gets discharged, and finally make their way out to take a shower before they reconvene in the bar of the hotel. Eddie follows behind them but before he steps outside, just like he did with Richie a week before, Stan asks him to stay a little longer. Richie lingers too, and suspects that the conversation isn’t gonna go all that different to how it did when it was Richie in Eddie’s place.

Eddie waves the others goodbye as they close the door behind them and approaches Stan’s bed, stopping to stand next to him on the side where they’ve been taking turns to sit. He doesn’t joke, not like Richie had, instead he waits for Stan to say something with an apprehensive expression.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Stan says, looking down at his hands, “but I’m sorry, Eddie.”

Eddie doesn’t answer. He moves his arms like he’s not sure what to do with them and ends up resting one hand on the empty mattress by Stan’s thigh. 

After a couple of seconds, when Eddie still hasn’t said anything, Stan risks a glance up at him but Eddie isn’t looking back, preferring to concentrate on a small crease in the sheet under his hand that he smoothes idly with his thumb. Stan continues. “I was scared and I was selfish,” his voice is choked as he pushes out the words, “If I hadn’t- If I’d gone to Derry, Richie might still be alive.”

A muscle in Eddie’s jaw jumps when he grits his teeth and he closes his eyes, his fingers going tight on the bedsheet. He huffs out an angry breath through his nose before he opens his eyes and looks up at Stan, who’s watching him with an open but braced expression, ready to take whatever anger Eddie sends his way like he deserves it. Eddie looks into Stan’s eyes and Richie can see what’s there too, the guilt and the regret. Eddie shakes his head and sighs, any trace of ire melts right out of him.

“You don’t-” Eddie begins, thinks better of it and starts again, “I’m not going to pretend I’m not angry, Stan, because I am.” He takes a deep breath and continues, “I know that you were scared, I was scared too,” he gestures frantically to himself, “I was fucking terrified, I almost got Richie killed.” He pauses. “The only reason I went in there was him, he-” he swallows, his voice lowers, “He convinced me I could do it and then he was the one that didn’t fucking make it out, and I _did_ get him killed Stan.” Eddie’s voice starts shaking then, and Richie can hear the anger resurfacing, but it’s directed at himself. “He got in the way of that fucking clown to save me, and he didn’t make it out. And _yes_ ,” he points out, “I thought that too, that if I wasn’t the one to get in his way, if I wasn’t a fucking burden he might still be alive.”

He’s panting heavily, the rush of his words leaving him breathless, and Stan is looking at him without saying a word, lips pressed tightly closed.

Richie wants to shout, he wants to take Eddie’s face in his hands and scream at him that “No, you did not get in the way, you died and I could not go on having that on me. _I_ was the selfish one, _I_ was the one who left you behind, not Stan. Because I’m a coward, because I was always only scared of losing you.” But he can’t, he can’t touch Eddie, he can’t talk to him, he can’t do anything aside from leaving behind a trail of guilt and he can’t even do that right.

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” Stan says again like he knows no other words. He reaches out and tentatively lays a hand over Eddie’s on the bed. At the touch, Eddie deflates, the tightness of his shoulders goes lax and his expression crumbles, he covers his eyes before the tears start flowing, hiding them behind his fingertips and sobbing into the palm of his hand.

Richie leaves. He’s not even bothered when he has to pass through the door to do so.

Eddie doesn’t get out of Stan’s room until Patricia gets back and when he exits there’s no trace of crying on his face aside from the slight redness of his eyes.

Richie follows him to the hotel, the short walk there silent and gloomy, but doesn’t make his way upstairs when Eddie does, going to his room before meeting with the other Losers at the bar on the ground floor where Richie waits for him with them.

They’re already a couple of drinks in when Eddie finally joins them, and the air is light with laughter. Eddie catches up by ordering the sweetest, most diluted cocktails the bar has on the menu and gives the stinkeye to the others before they even think of daring to comment his very sorority girl choice of drinks. He seems a lot more relaxed with them around and if Richie didn’t know he was crying just half an hour earlier, he wouldn’t be able to guess.

Richie lets their giddiness wash over him. He offers a remark here and there, it falls instinctively from his lips, but each time he gets ignored it becomes harder to let it out and he goes long stretches without saying a word, not all that different from the picture he’d made a week before when Eddie wasn’t at the table with them. He is now, and Richie glances at him while listening in on the other Losers' conversations, taking his fill of Eddie’s small smile and the way his shoulders get looser with each drink. They exchange stories from their time apart, reminisce about what they're all pretty much caught up remembering.

Eddie laughs along too, more than he's done in the last few days and Richie suspects a lot longer before that, but sometimes Richie also sees him get lost in his own thoughts. Eddie will roll his glass from one hand to the other, looking intensely into the dept of his drink with a crease between his eyes before snapping out of it at a deep laugh from Mike, a small nudge from Bill. He will tune back into their words, listen and laugh along for a bit, but it'll happen again, and the longer the night goes, the more intent his stares into the glass become.

And every single time the urge in Richie to reach out and touch him gets stronger.

About two hours and a significant number of drinks in, Beverly proposes to get some refreshments and they all agree enthusiastically, the mozzarella sticks and nachos that the bar provides a delicacy to their drunken tastebuds.

When the other patrons start trickling out and there’s almost no one left aside for them and the bar staff, a lull falls over the table, their conversations turning intimate and soft. Eddie is listening distractedly to something Bill says, playing idly with his glass and glancing away every few seconds to look at his hands. Ben nods along too, but his eyes are sleepy and barely open and Richie doesn’t think he’s paying much attention to Bill’s words either. Beverly leans into him heavily, facing Mike and mouthing something that Richie can’t hear and sending Eddie worried glances every couple of minutes. Richie sits back in one of the empty seats that were left for him and Stan, an arm thrown carelessly over the back of Eddie’s chair but not close enough to risk touching him, and he keeps opening and closing his palm around empty air when he can’t reach out. He sighs and wishes, not for the first time that night, that he could order a drink and swallow down the burn it would leave in his throat.

He snaps out of his thoughts when Eddie suddenly shifts, sitting up in his chair and pulling out Richie’s phone from his jeans pocket. He checks the time and puts it back down, then looks around the table and takes the others in too, not unlike how Richie has just done. He clears his throat quietly, not loud enough to call them to attention but Richie can tell he wants to say something, suspects he’s finally ready to tell them about the divorce. The others don’t notice, Beverly is the only one to glance at him when she sees him opening his mouth from the corner of her eye. Eddie doesn’t speak though, closes his mouth again and seems to change his mind. Beverly turns to him fully, a question ready on her tongue, but before she can ask it, Bill claps a hand on his knee and says, “Should we g-get out? It’s getting late and I th-think the bartender is g-g-gonna kick us out ss-soon.”

They do, they pay for their drinks and thank the bartender before making their way to the elevator and getting out one by one when they reach the floors their rooms are on. Mike is the first to go, waving them goodnight and thumbing at the keys of his room while he turns to the corridor, then Ben and Beverly who share a room just one floor higher than Mike’s. Eddie and Bill are the last to get off, Richie following closely behind, and they stop for a moment in front of the door to Bill’s room, where he pulls Eddie into a tight hug and tells him goodnight with a squeeze of his shoulder. Eddie waits for him to close his door before stepping ahead, the small smile on his lips turning into a tired sigh.

Richie sits on the bed while Eddie gets ready to sleep and listens to the rush of the water as he washes his teeth, the quiet cluttering of something against the porcelain of the sink as he puts his toiletries back. Eddie comes out of the bathroom not long after, sinking into the mattress easily and turning off the bedside lamp before he burrows deeper under the covers, half of his face pushed into the pillow.

Richie closes his eyes and bends his head back, leaning it on the wall behind the bedpost he sits against, and listens to Eddie’s breathing as he falls asleep, lets it lull him into his own impression of dream, where he’s surrounded by whiteness and swooshing air.

He opens his eyes and the room is endless, no shadows or movement except for the rippling waves of Maturin’s shell. Richie sits on the floor and looks around, concentrates on the weight of his limbs and the breath in his mouth and nose and suddenly feels something hot and cloying swell in his chest, a swift and vicious fury. He jumps to his feet and opens his mouth. “What the fuck?!” he shouts into the void, “Why am I still here? What did I ever do to deserve this- this-,” he stutters and flinches, “To get this fucking place?!” he finally screams.

All the answer he gets is the echo of his own voice and he yells again, long and loud and guttural, yells until his throat should hurt with the force of it, but the room won’t give him anything, not even pain. He collapses back on the immaterial ground and wheezes in mouthfuls of clear breaths, closes his eyes against the overwhelming emptiness of the air and lies there with no idea of the time passing.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asks again, quieter. It stays there with him, a question too small to travel the immense and vacant space. He doesn’t expect an answer this time either, but it comes nonetheless.

“I did not, Richie Tozier,” the turtle rumbles and it fills the spot behind Richie’s ribcage chasing away the anger and replacing it with languor, “You did.”

At that, Richie opens his eyes, catches the tip of a fin gliding above him before it disappears again. “What?” he asks, but the void doesn’t answer.

It’s early when Eddie wakes up the next morning, much earlier than Richie would like, and he pulls Richie out of his slumber when he rises from the bed.

Richie doesn’t know what times it is, he isn’t particularly preoccupied with the thought either, thinks about the turtle’s words instead and tries to understand what it might have meant. Richie already had a suspicion that the reason for not crossing over were his own personal issues around Eddie’s premature death and the guilt he was harbouring about the way he died that first time, but he doesn’t think he was hoping to get more when he made the trade of his life for Eddie’s. Quite the opposite, actually. He was ready for the turtle to take everything, was convinced that would be indeed what Maturin would take from him, and it’s only because he’s been stuck watching his friends’ lives go on without him that he’s started having regrets, wanting more than what was allowed him. It’s the turtle’s fault, really, Richie _wanted_ to disappear and not know what the future would be like if he couldn’t have Eddie in his life, so how is it his responsibility now?

It’s bullshit, that’s what it is, Richie is sure of it. Just another otherworldly entity unwilling to take responsibility for their own desires and whims, putting the weight of people’s fears and the way they keep taking advantage of them on some poor, scared, middle-aged, emotionally growth-stunted losers. It doesn’t do much to alleviate the doubt, doesn’t answer the question in the slightest, and Richie, unfortunately, knows it too.

Eddie stops at a small local bakery on his way to the hospital, different from the one where they got breakfast the previous morning and with a long list of gluten-free, vegan, organic, natural foods on its menu. He doesn’t wake the others before he leaves and when he checks his phone and doesn’t find any new messages in the group chat, Richie suspects it’s because it’s barely even time for visitation hours to begin yet and the others are probably still deep into dreamland.

They get to the hospital a few minutes earlier than when they’re supposed to, but the nurse at the entrance lets them go up anyway and when they reach Stan’s room he’s already awake, Patricia still sitting in the chair next to his bed, bleary-eyed and sleepy.

“Hi,” Eddie greets them. Richie goes for a more raunchy “How’s my favourite virgin suicide and his beautiful wife?” knowing he can’t be heard anyway. That one would surely have not impressed anyone otherwise.

Patricia stays just long enough to enjoy the nutritiously sound breakfast Eddie brought before making her way out to go home and get refreshed, taking advantage of Eddie’s presence and promising she will be back soon even after Stan and Eddie insist that she take her time and get some actual rest.

“What’d you guys get up to last night?” Stan asks Eddie casually while munching on a browner than usual croissant with a conflicted expression, undecided over whether he likes it or not, “You don’t look so hot.”

“Why, Urine, what makes you say so?” Richie sasses him from where he’s leaning at the foot of the hospital bed, “Is it the dark circles under his eyes or the vaguely jittery shake of his sleep-deprived body?”

“We forgot we were not teenagers raiding our parents’ alcohol cabinets,” Eddie answers over him, “and drank a couple of drinks too many.” He takes a bite out of the danish in his hand and doesn’t seem as bothered as Stan by its taste.

“A couple?!” Stan insists, incredulous, “It looks more like you tried to put a liquor store out of business.”

“That bad, huh?” Eddie chuckles slightly.

Stan laughs too. A couple of minutes of silence fall over the room as they eat their way through two more pastries each before Eddie speaks again.

“I’m getting a divorce,” he says suddenly without looking at Stan, fixing his eyes on the sticky finish that the tartlet left on his fingertips instead.

“Congratulations?” Stan asks quietly, “Or I’m sorry?”

Eddie’s mouth lifts in a small smile and he finally looks up. “Definitely congratulations,” he nods. “You know it’s just...” he tries to explain with a shrug, but trails off instead.

Stan nods too, and Richie can’t tell if it’s because he gets it or just because it seems like the right reaction. Richie has no idea what Eddie was trying to say.

They fall silent again, the only noise in the room is the soft rustle of the paper bag as Eddie folds the top and puts it down on the small table next to Stan, and the gentle creak of the bedsprings when Stan moves to sit more firmly against the bedpost.

"Hey, Stan?" Eddie speaks in a voice so small that for a second, Richie thinks he's hearing him at thirteen. 

Stan hums a little in question, Richie can tell that he's on the verge of falling asleep where he’s leaning against the pillows but not quite there yet. 

"I think I like guys," Eddie says. It's jumbled and barely discernible, but Richie hears it clear as day. Eddie isn't looking at Stan anymore, his eyes are planted firmly on his hands on top of the bed covers. He wrings them nervously. 

Stan reaches one hand and puts it gently on top of Eddie's, stopping his fidgeting. "I'm really proud of you," he tells Eddie.

Eddie swallows hard, his eyes gloss over and go wet. Even though Richie knows Eddie won't be able to feel it, he steps closer and puts a hand on his shoulder so very slowly, making sure that his hand doesn’t pass through the skin, his thumb going to his neck. He presses against the fabric of Eddie’s polo with intent and imagines all his affection and encouragement flowing into Eddie from the spot they're touching. He tries the hardest he's ever done to believe that Eddie will get it, that he will know how much Richie loves him and how not alone he is. 

In his mind, something finally clicks, and Richie feels ready.

As bright, white light begins engulfing him again, Stan asks Eddie "Is this about…?" but trails off. Eddie hesitates, nods slightly. Before Richie can understand what Stan's talking about, the fluorescent lights of the hospital room become blinding, and Richie finds himself standing in Maturin's belly.

“Hey! Wait, no-” Richie cries out, reaching out his hands like if he just tries hard enough, he’d be able to cling to Stan’s room, delay the pull of Maturin as it drags him into the white void.

"Richie Tozier," Maturin says, "it is time to leave."

The voice suffocates him, Richie hears it as loudly as he’s ever had so far and it doesn’t just shake his bones and his core, it fills him up and spills over until he’s completely engulfed by it and he finds it hard to breathe. He’s scared, he’s terrified and confused, because he feels like he knows what should happen but he isn’t certain he’ll be able to make it. He takes a deep breath and tries to parse his thoughts, realising that it is not Maturin’s voice that’s suffocating him but the darkness growing and getting closer from that small dot at the end of the endlessness, beckoning him to it.

"Where will you go?” Maturin asks again, waits for a beat and continues, "Do you know now what you have to give?" 

And Richie gets it this time. He thinks of Eddie, and he thinks of fear, and he knows which he'd rather keep. 

He doesn't need to answer, has only to think of Eddie's body above his own as he smiles triumphantly and of giving him the ending he deserves where his courage doesn't turn into ashes and death. 

Richie closes his eyes and opens his palms, lets go of fear like it is a physical weight he's been carrying for twenty-seven years and in a way he has. The whiteness dissolves behind his eyelids, the warmth of Maturin's presence seeps out of his bones but Richie doesn't miss it, he's too curious for what's to come, too elated with the possibilities of this new future to miss something that never brought him as much comfort as he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One weird thing that seems to have become a constant in my fic reading - and in this case writing - experience is that I always, always, always imagine Richie's (and sometimes Richie and Eddie's) kitchen and living room the same way despite how it's actually described in the story. 
> 
> Of course that means that in this story too, that's what it looks like.
> 
> Thank you again for reading this far! Make sure to find me on Tumblr [under the same name](https://mushiemadarame.tumblr.com) :)


	3. From The Top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He flattens his chest against Eddie's and presses them both into the ground, shields their heads with his arms before It can swing for him. When he hears the swooshing rush of It's claw coming their way again, he presses his nose against Eddie's neck and prays for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to warn you, before we go into this chapter, that there are some mentions of suicide so if that is a trigger for you, make sure you protect yourselves!!  
> On a related note, not all the opinions expressed by the characters are shared by the author.
> 
> Also sorry, the end notes are really f*cking long.

Richie’s back hits the unforgiving hardness of the cave for the third time, more solid than it's ever been and as he opens his eyes, the booming voice of the turtle's question resounds around and into him one last time, disappears in Eddie's own triumphant words. This has happened before, Richie knows what to do. 

He pushes back against Eddie's hold on him, rolls them on the floor until he's kneeling over Eddie's disoriented face. 

Eddie yelps, a small, scared sound when It's claw rams into the spot they'd been lying on. Richie doesn't dwell this time, doesn’t linger on the look and light in Eddie’s eyes, he's learned this new face of Eddie's like the back of his hand in the week he’s spent looking at it contorted with all sorts of emotions, can recall it with no effort at all and even if he couldn't, he'll have the rest of his life to relearn it if things go the way they're supposed to.

He flattens his chest against Eddie's and presses them both into the ground, shields their heads with his arms before It can swing for him. When he hears the swooshing rush of It's claw coming their way again, he presses his nose against Eddie's neck and prays for the best.

It breaks through the air and misses his waist by inches, but not far enough not to leave a wound. It scratches deeply against Richie's back, tears at his jacket and clothes and breaks the skin, but as painful as it might be, it's nowhere near what getting impaled had felt like. He's bleeding, he can feel his back sting and ache where it’s been cut open, but it's barely more than a scratch compared to what happened to Eddie the first time or him the second. If this is the price to pay for the hope of a happy ending, Richie is willing to pay it.

He hears Bill’s voice from where he’s calling It’s attention on him, trying to give them a chance to get away but Richie can’t move. His arms are frozen above Eddie’s head and his fingers are closed in fists so tight that the nails leave a dull ache in his palms.

Eddie touches his back gently, pulls his hands away and looks at them over Richie’s bent head and shoulders, finding blood. “Richie, _shit_ ,” he cusses, his voice shakes, “You’re bleeding, you’re bleeding. Please tell me you’re okay.”

Richie doesn’t answer, his teeth are gritted too hard behind his lips and he can’t concentrate on anything that isn’t Eddie’s body beneath his own. He hears the sound of feet sliding on the rough terrain next to them and has no idea who it is until they speak.

"Rich, come on, we need to go," Beverly shakes him by the shoulder, her voice is urgent, "Richie? Richie!"

"Richie, hey," Eddie says much softer into his hair, Richie doesn't know where he gets the patience in a moment like this. His hands are hesitant around Richie's forearms and he's pushing back against his body so they can get to their feet.

Richie knows he should get up, let Eddie out from under him to find somewhere to hide and realise how to kill It. He doesn't want to let go, physically can't take his hands off of Eddie for fear that he'll slip away between his fingers and realises that he’s fucking terrified, actually. His body is locked in place and he can feel Eddie's chest move underneath his own with every breath they take, panicked and scared. 

"We really need to get up," Eddie tries again, "Richie, _please_." The moment the word leaves Eddie's mouth, something in Richie unlocks and he lifts his head to look into Eddie's eyes, searches them for something he doesn't know to look for. Whatever it is, he doesn't have the time to find it because Ben is behind him and pulling his loosened hold off Eddie and the floor. But Richie still doesn't take his hand off him, holds on tightly to Eddie's wrist as they run to an alcove between the splintered rocks of the lair.

"What now?" asks Ben. The others have run after them and they're all folded in half on themselves, wheezing with the panic and the running. Still, Richie maintains his hand on Eddie, who keeps sending glances to the spot Richie's holding on to but doesn't comment on it.

They all look at Mike aside from Richie, who’s trying to catch his breath and realising that he’s the only one who already knows what to do. But Eddie does too, he was the one to tell them the first time around and Richie doesn’t know what it would mean for their timeline if he were to be the one to say it now. Is there such a thing as disrupting the space-time continuum or is that just in movies? He has no idea and isn’t too keen on waiting to see what happens either. _Fuck it_ , he thinks and tugs gently at Eddie’s wrist in his hand.

When Eddie doesn’t look at him, he tugs harder. “Eds,” he calls, “What happened when you went to find your token?”

“Rich, what the hell,” Eddie replies, “This is really not the time. We can talk about our other experience with the clown fucking with our heads when we’re done with this one.”

“The Leper, Eds,” Richie insists, “What happened with the Leper?”

“Wh-” Eddie’s eyebrows furrow in confusion before his eyes light up with realisation. “Oh,” he says, “I- I almost killed it, I had my hands around Its neck and I could feel It choking,” he explains, shakes his head slightly before looking to Richie again, a question in his eyes. “How did you-”

“All living beings must follow the laws of the body they inhabit,” he’s interrupted by Mike, who distracts him enough that he doesn’t ask again.

After that, things are kind of a blur. They run, again, and then they scream. They shout all sorts of profanities and insults to that dumb tentacley shape of a murder clown and the louder Eddie screams, the clearer Richie hears his voice next to him, the harder he screams too until It is just a small shrivelled thing at their feet trying to get the last word. Its heart is wrinkly and slimy in their hands before it turns to dust and everything comes crashing down around them, fast but not enough that Richie doesn’t revel in the touch of Eddie’s hand under his own as they end It’s life, once and for all if Richie has anything to say about it.

They rush to the entrance of the cave, don’t stop until they’re across the muddy water under Neibolt and back into the house before they finally feel the air and sun on their skin again. Richie doesn’t let go of Eddie once, not even when they have to swim their way out of the cave and it would be much easier and faster to do so with two hands. He doesn’t know if he’s hurting Eddie, he knows his grip is too tight, but Eddie doesn’t say anything, doesn’t complain or even call attention to it and Richie is terrified by the thought of what it is Eddie sees in Richie’s eyes to stop him from talking about it.

It's only as he watches the house crumble in front of him that he finally lets go of Eddie's wrist and falls to the ground. Eddie looks down at him with an alarmed expression that turns into bewilderment when Richie starts laughing. It thrills out from his chest, a bird escaping a cage, and Richie can't stop it even through the pain of his wound against the pavement. His whole body shakes with it, the sun is blinding above him and his eyes are watering from the strain of keeping them open against its light. 

Richie has no idea what the next few days are going to bring, but for the first time in the last two weeks, all he can feel about it is excitement. The fear is gone - at least for the meantime, Richie suspects - and all that's left in its path is relief, the certainty that he finally got it right.

"Richie, what the fuck are you doing?!" Eddie screeches from above and Richie turns his smile on him, "Stand up before you get your wound infected, you dumbnut."

Richie answers by laughing in Eddie's face, which goes dangerously red with fury from the roots of his hair to the collar of his shirt.

It’s the most beautiful colour Richie has ever seen. He suspects he’s going to think that a lot for the next few days, hopes against all that is reasonable that he can keep feeling as giddy as he is for the next century and that Eddie will get just as angry at him about it as he is now. Eddie is alive. Eddie is alive!!! They both are, they _all_ are and he couldn’t ask for more. The wound hurts like hell, even worse now that the adrenaline has worn off, and it’s wonderful to feel his skin again. Anger was always the best look on Eddie. Another bout of giggles bubbles out of him when he remembers he’s gonna find out he was so wrong, that he’s gonna see Eddie smile, Eddie laugh, Eddie scream, and roll his eyes, and grimace, and snap at him not to “Fucking call me that,” and “Beep, beep, Trashmouth,” and all of it - all of it! Every single thing - is gonna be the best look on Eddie just because Richie can fucking see it there on his living, breathing face.

Beverly falls to her knees next to Richie and takes one of his hands into hers, joining in the laughter. She leans her forehead against his with her eyes closed, her giggling a symphony to Richie's ears.

One by one, the others start laughing, too. Mike joins in first, then Ben with his shy, deep chuckling, and finally Bill, and soon enough Eddie is the only silent one, looking at them like they've all gone mad. Beverly looks up at him with a radiant smile and grabs his wrist, pulling him down with a forceful yank. Eddie falls to his knees heavily, catching himself on his hands on either side of Richie's head just in time not to smash half on top of him.

He contorts his lips in a downturned slope, trying to stifle his smile, but when Richie opens his eyes again and looks into Eddie's so close to him, his annoyed facade crumbles and a squeak of laughter escapes his mouth, his cackling bursting out free and joyful. He falls back on his calves, grips at his stomach as the force of his laughter makes his whole body shake and for a moment, they’re six filthy fools laughing in the middle of the road in front of a house that’s just collapsed.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Eddie declares when their laughter starts dying out, “Get up, get up.” He nudges urgently against Richie’s side who realises he was dozing off, lulled by the warmth of the midday sun on his wet skin. He opens his eyes to look up at Eddie but doesn’t move. Eddie gets to his feet, pulls Richie's hand and forearm insistently to try and get him standing. It doesn’t work, of course, because Richie is taller than a wardrobe compared to Eddie and his shoulders are at least two times wider, or maybe just because Richie is doing his utter best to make life harder for Eddie and lying there like a dead weight. “Oh, come on,” Eddie finally snaps when he realises Richie is doing it on purpose, and slaps his hand away, turning his back on him and taking the way back into town. “I’m gonna go buy a banner that says _‘I fucking told you so’_ so I can hang it in your hospital room when you almost die from the infection in your back.”

That pulls another laugh out of Richie, who finally hoists himself up on his elbows and then on his feet, groaning through the motion. “No, Eddie, I will surely die without you,” he sing-songs in the parody of a brokenhearted voice and grimaces when it hits a bit too close home. Eddie’s look turns dark too, just for an instant, but Richie sees it clearly.

They make their way to the hospital on foot, admittedly much more leisurely than they should. Eddie spurs him on with a “Come on, Richie,” every few steps, an annoyed tint to his voice. But Richie can hear the worry too, see it in the way he’ll fall back every couple of minutes so he can look at the wound in his back and make sure it hasn’t gotten worse. They’re mostly silent, six dirty zombies slouching through the streets, weighed down by exhaustion and the after-effects of chilling panic from the hellish nightmare they’ve just been through. Sometimes they start laughing again, little bubbles of laughter, incredulous that they somehow all made it out alive against all possible odds. Richie gets it, he had to try three times before he finally got it right.

They enter the hospital and immediately feel everyone’s eyes on them. It’s not every day a bunch of middle-aged weirdos trudge in covered in mud and blood with smiles on their faces.

The others stay back and fall into the plastic seats of the entrance while Eddie pulls Richie along to the reception. The nurses there look on with wide eyes as he explains that they need treatment for a wound and not much later a doctor makes her way to them, gesturing for Richie to follow her to a room so she can check his injury and asking Eddie to stay behind while she does so. Eddie almost starts protesting before remembering that he also still has a huge cut in his cheek that’s probably smeared in all kinds of muck and lets a nurse hurry him along to a different room than Richie, looking back with a pained expression as they separate.

They give him stitches, a whole lot of them, and clean and redress Eddie's cheek wound. _The only one he has_ , Richie thinks gratefully. 

Even with the stitches, the gash in Richie's back makes the skin around it pound painfully every time he so much as thinks about rotating his torso, but it's not serious enough for the doctor to sedate him before she sews him up. Richie wishes it was because when Eddie comes back from his own check-up and starts to nag the doctor while she works on Richie's back, Richie wants to reach out, pull him closer by the cheek and never let him go. He wants to tell Eddie how much he missed him, how worth it was to die and come back twice just to get to know him again. Richie wants to caress Eddie's face, make sure he's real and corporeal in front of him, that he's breathing and doesn't plan to stop soon. But he's not sedated, not high on some restraint-numbing painkillers, and he can't justify the affection without Eddie reading in his touches every single crumb of desperation that Richie's ever felt since meeting him for the first time when they were only just kids. 

Richie tells himself it's okay, that he knew what coming back meant and that living through the rest of his life in a world where Eddie is still alive and they remember each other is enough, more than, and he doesn't need anything else.

He sighs and sits heavily on the edge of the bed. Now that the elation and excitement of making it out alive have somewhat dwindled and the tiredness has started creeping in in their place, he can feel himself crashing. He listens only absent-mindedly to the instructions the doctor gives him on how to care for the wound, knowing that Eddie is paying enough attention for the both of them and will undoubtedly make sure to repeat the instructions to Richie more than once throughout the rest of the day and, possibly, the week. Richie closes his eyes and is still sitting there when the doctor leaves the room to attend to other patients and hears Eddie sit into the chair next to the bed. He opens his eyes and finds Eddie already looking at him. Richie smiles dopily, in that insufferable way he knows makes Eddie tick. 

“You didn’t listen to any of that, did you?” Eddie asks him, not really expecting an answer.

“Hey, I’m only in it for the painkillers,” Richie jokes and lunges for the prescription in Eddie’s hand, who pulls it away and out of his reach.

“Only responsible adults get to take potentially addicting drugs,” Eddie scolds him, his chin in the air and bushy eyebrows lifted to his forehead in a haughty expression. Richie can see the smile he’s trying to conceal in the dimple on his cheek.

He laughs and pats Eddie's shoulder amicably, using the excuse to reach out and feel his solid, breathing body under his hands and Eddie grimaces when the movement presses his muddy hoodie into his skin. Richie slides his hand higher then, lets it settle between his neck and jaw and turns Eddie's head gently, eyeing the fresh bandage and whistling lowly at the marvellous job the nurse has done on it. He's not all that interest in the gauze, to be quite honest, but he doesn't know another way to touch Eddie without making it an excuse. 

Richie's hand trembles on Eddie's skin and he wants to cower under Eddie's weird look, afraid that he's being too obvious. He doesn't.

"I'm so glad your ugly mug will be around for many more years to come, Eds," Richie says with a choked kind of smile, his hand still squeezing the side of Eddie's neck. 

Eddie rolls his eyes and tries to suppress his soft smile. It doesn't work as well as he'd like because Richie can still see it in the corners of his lips and the curve of his Cupid's bow. 

Richie looks down just as his shoulders start to shake, lets his hand fall away from Eddie's skin and uses it to cover his eyes underneath his glasses. He is so happy he gets to annoy Eddie for the rest of his life that it spills out of him in an unexpected wave of tears there's nothing he can do to stop. 

"Richie, are you crying?" Eddie asks him, mild concern and a healthy dose of shock in his voice.

"No, no," Richie brushes the notion away with a casual flip of his hand. "I'm just allergic to feelings," he tries to joke, but it shakes with the tears.

"Can't believe your brain never developed past thirteen," Eddie sighs long-sufferingly before standing up and pulling Richie into his arms carefully. Richie snorts on another sob and clings to Eddie’s shirt at his sides, laughing and crying into Eddie's chest as he pats the muddy curls at the top of Richie's head. Richie's skin is warm where they touch, his throat burns like he swallowed pure light, Eddie's intact body beneath his hands is solid and whole.

Richie finally pulls away when his tears have long stopped and he can feel his eyes start to droop where he’s smushed into Eddie’s chest and his shoulders relax under Eddie’s gentle touch. He is generally an embarrassing person, but he draws the line at falling asleep on his childhood - and possibly lifelong - crush. He smacks his mouth noisily and readjusts his glasses, looking away and standing from the bed a little too quickly if the twinge in his back is anything to go by. Eddie steps back too and folds the paper still clutched in his hand, wordlessly passing it to Richie who takes it and starts making his way back to the reception area.

“Come on, Spaghetti Head,” he calls after him as he goes, “I need to sleep for the next five years.”

Eddie mutters a half-hearted, “Don’t call me that,” and follows him as they rejoin the others, ready to make their way back to the Townhouse.

Richie seriously considers face-planting into the bed still covered in dirt and blood and falling asleep until someone gets worried and comes to check on him. He almost does, too, gets as far as sitting down on the mattress and debating which position will be less of a strain on his wound before there’s a knock on his door.

He pulls himself to his feet with a groan and walks to the door to open it, finds a frowning Eddie on the other side, arms loaded with clean clothes and medical supplies.

“Hey,” Eddie greets him, “So there’s still blood all over my bathroom and I really need a shower. Do you mind if I use yours?” he asks uncertainly.

Richie steps back to let him in, “Sure, Eds, mi casa es tu casa.”

“Technically, this is a hotel,” Eddie points out, making his way inside, “and don’t call me that.”

“Are you sure you’re in any position to antagonize your magnanimous benefactor right now?” Richie asks with a click of his tongue, but all the answer he gets from Eddie is a nasty look over his shoulder before he closes the bathroom door in Richie’s face.

Richie laughs silently and goes back to his place on the bed, tentatively lying on his side to see if the position will hurt. It doesn’t and before he knows it, he gets pulled out of his doze by the sound of Eddie coming out of the bathroom, showered and wearing clean clothes.

“Are you not gonna get washed at all?” Eddie asks him with a disgusted look on his face, “We rolled in like five different types of filth and that is just while standing on the lawn of Neibolt.”

“I would,” Richie answers without moving from his position on the bed, “But I can’t get water on my stitches.”

Eddie considers him for a moment. “Come on,” he says, putting aside his dirty clothes on the small desk in the room, “Take your shirt off.”

Richie breathes in, tries to cover it by exaggerating the sound into a staged gasp and finally says, “Buy me dinner first.”

“You dumbass.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “I’ll help you clean your back and you can wash the rest after. Or did It make you recede back to six years old and you forgot how to wash too?”

“You always say the sweetest things to me, Eds,” Richie drawls, getting to his feet and following Eddie as he disappears into the bathroom again, “Keep it up and I’ll definitely let you watch while I wash my _ravishing_ ” - he makes sure to exaggerate the roll of his R - “body. Should have known that would turn out to be a kink of yours.”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie,” Eddie snaps testily, “I bet you don’t even lift.”

Richie snorts, affection unfurling in a warm little ball in the middle of his chest. He follows Eddie’s orders and takes his shirt off with a quiet groan, lets Eddie manhandle him into sitting backwards on the closed lid of the toilet with his front to the wall. Eddie touches his back gently, checking that the medical tape is still pressed snugly to Richie’s skin and Richie shivers slightly, pulling a soft “Sorry” out of Eddie before he pulls his hands back and goes to wet one of the hotel’s scratchy towels under the tap, making sure that the water is warm enough.

He rubs the skin around the bandage gingerly, his hands moving in steady but careful strokes. Richie closes his eyes and lets his chin fall to his collarbones, the muscles in his shoulders going slack and pliant. Eddie repeats the motion two, three times, makes sure to span the entirety of his back and the top of arms, goes low enough that the waistband of Richie’s pants gets wet with the moisture from the towel.

“There,” Eddie says to himself when he deems Richie's back clean enough, and dries him with another cloth before pulling away. Richie opens his eyes abruptly, biting back a small whine and immediately missing Eddie’s touch. “Okay, done,” Eddie announces and steps back to give him space to stand up.

Richie does, looks over his shoulder into the mirror above the sink to inspect Eddie’s handiwork and whistles low. “How much to extend the massage session?” he asks, sending Eddie an exaggerated wink and promptly getting an eye-roll in reply.

“A thank you wouldn’t hurt.” Eddie crosses his arms and looks at him unimpressed.

“Aw, Eds, _thank you_ ,” Richie elongates the vowels and lunges for Eddie’s cheeks, pinching them heartily and speaking in a baby voice, “My cute little doctor.”

Eddie slaps his hands away and pinches his naked side aggressively, making Richie yelp and then laugh. “If you’re done making fun of me,” he trails off and turns to leave.

“You know,” says Richie before he exits, aiming for casual and hoping he doesn’t miss, “You can sleep here too, if you want. Since your room is all nasty and shit, I mean.”

Eddie turns to him and rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I was just gonna take one of the sofas downstairs,” he replies.

“You’re forty, man,” Richie insists, “You’ll need a back transplant if you do that.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “Yeah, okay,” he finally agrees, needing a lot less convincing than Richie thought he would, “but you better not snore.”

Richie hums consideringly and lets himself smile, turning around and unbuckling his belt so he can get undressed and finish getting washed.

Eddie mutters a hasty “Right,” and makes for the door. “I’m gonna bring some of my stuff in here then,” he says before he closes the bathroom door behind him and leaves Richie his privacy.

Richie only faintly hears Eddie coming back into the room over the noise of the shower as he washes whatever places Eddie hasn’t taken care of yet. 

He holds the shower head in his hand and slowly scrubs the grime and filth from his skin, his movements stiff under the newly applied bandage. Even if he weren't wounded, he doesn’t think he could manage much more than slugging through his cleaning motions, and Richie wishes the water could sweep away the exhaustion too. He pauses for a moment after he's done, sitting naked on the cold edge of the bathtub with his head in his hands, letting the day catch up to him and wondering if his body can somehow feel the weight of the two weeks he's had to live through even though they have been effectively wiped from ever happening.

And if he lets himself cry into the palms of his hands while he's at it, he can just wash away the redness around his eyes in the bathtub so it doesn't count. 

Eddie's not there when Richie comes out of the bathroom with soaking wet hair and a towel wrapped around his waist. He hears movement from outside his door that tells him the others are already downstairs and digging into the cabinets of the small bar and goes to his duffel to pull out clean clothes to wear, noticing that he only has enough to maybe last him a couple more days.

He pulls on his pants and pointedly doesn’t look at the spot where Eddie has left the smallest of his suitcases and the cylindrical bag where Richie knows he keeps his toiletries and first aid supplies. He wishes he couldn’t remember the row of colourful polos he found there after Eddie died, that this was the only version of the week he’s ever lived through and wonders briefly how he’s going to explain what happened. Will it even come up at all? Maybe he’ll keep on living and the turtle will never appear to him again and he’ll just be able to forget how close he came to losing everything he loved for the second time. He really hopes that will be the case. In the end, he’s distracted from having to think about the consequences of fucking with time by the stab of pain in his back when he pulls on his shirt, after deciding that the best way to do it was to pull it down as fast as he could.

Richie gives himself five seconds to whine and groan about the pain before he looks around the room and sees that in the very few hours he has spent in there he has managed to spread most of his very few belongings all over the place. He goes to pick up what he can, stuffing it into his bag, and then goes to the bathroom too, grabbing his blood-and-mud-soaked clothes, the shirt with the huge gash in the back, and chucking them directly into the small bin in the corner of the room so he doesn’t have to look or deal with them ever again. He laments the loss of his favourite jacket for a second and solemnly salutes it with a grimace before dropping it along the rest of his ruined clothes and going back to his task.

He’s not exactly trying to bring the room up to Eddie’s standards of cleanliness, but he doesn’t want to give him a reason to decline his offer of the bed either, wants to achieve that golden place just below trying way too hard that says he’s clean enough for Eddie to stay so Richie can make sure that he’s actually still alive and well and not wake up in the middle of the night in a panic because Eddie is not in his immediate line of sight and so he can be sure that he didn’t dream or even worse, hallucinate coming back and saving him from certain death. Richie’s sure there’ll be repercussions on his mental health when Eddie finally has to go back to New York and he’ll have to deal with the fact that what happened with Maturin is completely mental and his brain will never come out of the fight or flight mentality of having to figure out if him saving his best friend - and potential love of his life - actually happened without being able to just reach out and find Eddie there, but Richie has always been a pro at being in denial so he guesses that’ll be a problem for another time.

When he joins the others downstairs, they’re all sitting at the bar counter with drinks in hands and chatting with each other. Beverly is saying something to Eddie when she spots Richie and stops mid-sentence to greet him with a loud and cheerful “Richie!” that makes the others startle into silence and turn to him.

“I see you started the party without me,” Richie says, pulling a chair from the small lounge room with him when he notices that all the stools are already occupied.

“How’s your w-w-wound, Rich?” Bill asks him from across the counter.

“It’s alright,” Richie replies, settling himself next to Eddie and shooting a soft “Thanks” to Beverly when she fills a glass and slides it to him. He slaps a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and continues, “Our Dr Kasprak here made sure it didn’t get wet. Me, on the other hand...” he trails off, sending a flirty wink Bill’s way, who laughs and shakes his head affectionately.

“Very funny,” Eddie mutters into his glass and winces when he takes a sip, but doesn’t shrug Richie’s hand off.

“So what were you guys talking about?” Richie asks, slouching sideways on the bar counter and taking a drink.

“Not much,” Mike replies and then, “I was wondering when you guys were gonna go back.”

“We don’t have a schedule,” Ben is the one to answer, “but Beverly and me, we, huh...” he looks at Beverly shily, making sure that she’s okay with him saying, she smiles back encouragingly. Richie has been here before, he knows already what Ben is about to say and he can finally feel happy for them with no ifs or buts. He doesn’t even mind that he’s gonna have to hear a lot of things that he already knows, just takes another sip and tries to hide the smile in his glass before it is warranted. Ben continues, his voice gone even softer, “...we’re going back together.”

Mike and Bill immediately congratulate them, again, and Eddie addresses a baffled but enthusiastic, “Dude!” to Ben, reaching over Bill to punch him amicably in the shoulder. Richie whistles loudly and this time everyone hears him. Ben turns an impressive shade of red while Beverly pushes him away from the counter with a half-hearted shove and doesn’t hide the huge smile that blooms on her face at their reaction.

“What about your husband?” Bill interrupts their little cheering, putting his foot in his mouth one last time. 

Richie snorts into his drink and makes liquor splatter on the counter in front of him and one of Eddie’s arms. “Rich, what the fuck?!” Eddie scrunches his nose in disgust and Richie dabs at the wet droplets on his shirt with a paper napkin while muttering a weak “Sorry, sorry,” but doesn’t stop smiling.

Bill looks at Beverly and blanches, like not even he can believe what just came out of his mouth. “I-I mean, not that you sh-sh-should go back to him but that doesn’t seem like a problem that solves itself,” he hastens to explain. “I’m sorry,” he adds quietly.

Beverly shakes her head and looks back at him with a reassuring smile, “It’s okay. Ben is putting me in contact with a lawyer friend of his and with some luck, the _'problem'_ ” she echoes Bill, “will be dealt with as soon as possible.”

Richie doesn’t pay much attention to Beverly and Ben making eyes at each other. Instead, he elbows Eddie slightly and says quietly enough so only he can hear, “About time, huh?”

Eddie smirks, looks at him surreptitiously with a knowing look. “Tell me about it,” he says and Richie smiles back, not taking his eyes away from Eddie’s.

“Richie,” Bill says.

Richie reels back, looking away from Eddie and feeling like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be. “Huh?” he hums a little too casually and sits back, his moment with Eddie broken.

“I was thinking, since we’re b-b-both in L.A., we could go back at the same time,” Bill suggests and looks at him expectantly.

“Sure, Big Bill,” Richie agrees, rolling the almost-empty glass between his fingers. “Sounds good to me. When do you wanna go?”

“I can do my writing from p-pretty much anywhere,” Bill explains, “So it’s up to y-you.”

“I mean,” Richie starts, “I think I’ve had my fill of Derry for a lifetime by now so the sooner the better.” He downs the rest of his drink and then remembers, “Sorry, Mike.”

“I get that, man,” Mike chuckles into his own drink, “I’m not staying either.”

“Right,” Richie mutters and Eddie looks at him weirdly but doesn’t ask because Beverly speaks again.

“Where are you gonna go?” she asks Mike with an expectant look the others mirror.

“I still wanna go and see Florida,” Mike replies then adds, “I was thinking I might take the long way there and enjoy some of the scenery first.”

Ben claps a hand on Mike’s shoulder and beams at him, “We’d love to have you over if you’re ever in Upstate New York. Right, Bev?” 

She nods excitedly, “Of course!”

“And t-t-that goes for L.A., too, obviously,” Bill makes sure to add, “For you guys too,” he nods to Ben, Beverly and Eddie.

Mike’s face splits into a huge smile and he looks away almost timidly. The bitterness Richie felt the first time he remembered that Mike had to be in Derry alone for almost thirty years has somewhat abated, although some of the guilt still remains. It doesn’t sting as much as before, though, because he’s seen their next week unfold and he knows that even when he wasn’t there, things got better, they were still together. He doesn’t think anything could separate them at this point and even if it could, Richie would fight tooth and nail not to let it happen. He hasn’t relived the worst week of his life twice just to watch it all go to shambles in front of him. He’s feeling pretty confident in what the future holds for them and so he makes the dick joke, because he can and because Eddie is there to hear it too this time. “I bet mine is bigger than Bill's. I meant my house,” he says and winks at Mike, “Just in case you do end up in L.A.”

“Beep, beep, Richie,” Eddie groans half-heartedly, “I would have thought you’d stop talking about your dick after puberty.”

Richie beams, not for the first time basking in the fact that Eddie’s still there to get a rise on. Eddie looks at him like that is not at all the reaction he’d expected, but Richie doesn’t even care that he’s being obvious because he can’t suppress the relief that floods him every time he remembers that he gets to forget about going through Eddie’s stuff, gets to pretend that he can’t tell what losing him would feel like.

“And you, Eddie?” Beverly interrupts their little staring contest, making Eddie turn to her and take another sip - and another grimace - of his drink before he hums questioningly. “When are you going back?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Eddie replies, preferring to look into his glass instead of returning any of their eyes concentrated on him. He only adds more when nobody else speaks, expecting him to elaborate. “You know, I have to make a couple of calls, deal with some work stuff...” he trails off with a small shrug.

Richie narrows his eyes at him, trying to read the reason for Eddie’s vagueness in his face, but Eddie’s gaze keeps flitting from his glass to Beverly with a small, forced smile. Richie wants to ask more, but he can tell that Eddie doesn’t want to share whatever is on his mind so he decides to drop it for the moment, makes a mental note to ask him about it later when they go back to his room to sleep and it’s just the two of them.

“Let us know when you decide,” Ben breaks the stiff silence, “We could try and get a plane on the same day.”

“Good idea, man,” Richie says, and the others nod along too, even Eddie.

Mike clears his throat, then, and they turn to him. He’s looking between Beverly and Ben hesitantly when he says, “Would you mind if I took you up on your offer a little earlier than you thought?”

“What do you mean?” asks Beverly.

“I could catch a plane, too,” Mike explains, “Go to New York with you guys and take a look around while I’m there.” Ben opens his mouth to answer but Mike continues, “I know you two lovebirds might prefer the time alone, but I promise I won’t be in your hair too much.”

Ben blushes while Beverly laughs. “Of course, Mike,” Ben croaks out, still a little embarrassed, and leans his hand on one of Mike’s forearms to give it a reassuring squeeze, “You can stay with us for as long as you want.”

Richie wonders just for a second what he’s going to do when he goes back to L.A. He’s definitely in a better mindset than he was two weeks ago and he’ll have to make plans for the future eventually. He thinks of his empty house and of Eddie filling the space when he wasn’t there and wishes it could be like that this time around, too. He sighs and doesn’t see the glance Eddie throws his way from where he’s sitting next to Richie, thinks of the scribbled notes in the notebook he knows is still on the floor next to his bed in L.A. and the prospect of trying his hand at writing his own material doesn’t sound as exhausting as it did before. Maybe suddenly falling off the grid after his botched show wasn’t such a bad thing, maybe now that there’s no lower to dig and there’s nothing to lose, sharing his own voice would be the right shot to make. And who knows, he could publicly come out, too. As soon as he thinks about it, he scratches the thought off the list of possibilities. He wants to, of course, he’s not just the scared 13-year-old from Derry anymore, but if he does that, he wants to do it right and that means family comes first. He wants to tell the Losers before he tells anybody else, but he’s not feeling particularly fearless at this exact moment.

Eddie nudges him slightly in the shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts and looking at him with a worried expression. “Rich, are you o-” he starts asking, but Beverly cuts him off, unaware of their little exchange.

She claps her hands and asks, “Who’s hungry?”

There are mixed noises of agreement. Beverly pulls out the worn-out leaflets and they order from the Indian place again. Now that Richie actually gets to taste it, it’s not that bad. He even manages to convince Eddie not to go for the depressing salad, pointing out that he deserves to celebrate with some decent food now that their worst nightmare has finally been defeated.

They drink, and they chat, and when the food is all gone and several bottles of various alcoholic beverages have been consumed, the conversation lulls to a sated murmur.

Richie kicks his feet on the low coffee table in front of him and lies back into his armchair with his hands on his full stomach and a satisfied, sleepy smile on his face. He looks around at the others in what have basically become their designated places, takes his time to take in their serene expressions, the absence of the weight of having lost someone that day. They look tired, exhausted by one of the longest days of their lives, but they’re calm too, like they can only be when they’re together.

He sees Beverly settle into Ben, pressed shoulders to hips on the smallest of the couches. They’re talking in hushed tones and words that Richie doesn’t care to make out, smiling softly into each other’s eyes like the world around them is just background to each other. Richie smiles and looks away, feeling like he’s intruding on a private moment. He turns to Bill instead, who’s leaning with his elbows on his knees and gesturing wildly between Mike, who’s lying heavily into the pillowy back of his seat and chuckling a deep laugh, and Eddie, who seems enthralled by whatever story Big Bill is recounting. He turns to Richie just as Richie is looking at him and lifts his eyebrows in question. Richie just shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, never dropping his drowsy smile.

He’s being uncharacteristically silent, almost an echo of how he was on that first week when he’d lost Eddie, but unlike then, his silence is placid rather than painful. He wants to sink into the others’ voices, let them fill his lungs behind his ribs like a breath of familiar air that he didn’t know he’d missed for thirty years. There’ll be time for him to fill the silence, with and without them - mostly with if he has anything to say about it. He knows they’ll have to leave in a couple of days and all go back to the busy routines of their lives, but they’re gonna see each other again soon when Stan wakes up and for now, he’s not too worried about too much time passing before they’re together once more. His smile drops suddenly. _Stan!_ He hadn’t even thought about him until now, how could he forget to tell them he’s alive?!

“Shit!” he curses and sits up. The others fall silent and immediately snap their eyes to him.

“Are you okay?” Beverly peeks at him from behind Ben.

“Yes,” he replies, “Yes! We need to call Stan’s wife,” he announces, quite definitely.

“Uhm…?” Beverly flounders and looks at him with a confused expression.

“Wh-why?” Bill asks in her place, his face turning sour at the mention of Stan’s name, “I don’t think that’s a g-g-good idea, she d-doesn’t even know who we are.”

“No, he’s- he-” Richie stumbles to explain. He sighs deeply and closes his eyes, already knowing that he’s about to lie even before he consciously makes the decision to do so. “I think he’s alive,” he says, “No, I’m _positive_ he’s alive. I don’t really know how to explain this-”

“The deadlights,” Beverly interjects before he can finish. “You saw something in the deadlights,” she says matter-of-fact, “What was it?”

Richie could kiss her right then. It’s not technically a lie if he wasn’t the one to say it, he’s just not going to correct her assumption. He grimaces at his own flimsy reasoning and nods anyway. “I can’t tell exactly. I just kind of, uhm, saw him I guess,” he tries to stay vague, “I think we should check again.”

“Alright,” Ben says, “Do you still have her number?” he asks Beverly. She nods and pulls out her phone, already dialling and putting it on speaker as soon as she presses the call button.

Richie sinks a little deeper into the armchair and looks at the others. Mike catches his eyes and asks him with a pensive look, “Do you not remember at all?” Richie swallows and shakes his head minutely, looking away. He makes eye contact with Eddie for just a second, and he’s already looking at Richie, doesn’t seem too convinced by his words. Before he can say anything, the call connects and Patricia’s voice sounds from the other side, “Hello?”

“Hi,” Beverly replies in the most delicate voice she can. “I don’t know if you remember me,” she hesitates, “My name is Beverly Marsh, I called a couple of days ago about- uhm, to talk to Stan.” She pauses and looks up at Richie, who nods at her encouragingly, “I’m sorry to bother you at such a moment, but I wanted to ask-”

“Yes, I- I remember,” Patricia interrupts, her voice crinkles out of the phone’s speaker, “I was going to call you soon.”

Beverly’s eyes widen in shock and her grip around the phone goes tighter. “I- huh- How come?”

“Stan, he-” Patricia begins, “He pulled through. The doctors- They thought he was dead but then the ambulance arrived at the hospital and they managed to bring him back. It was-” a small incredulous laugh seems to escape from her lips before she can stop it, “They said it was a miracle.”

Richie lets out a sigh of relief, only then realising that he’d been holding his breath, and Beverly gapes at him, her eyes big and wet. They all exchange looks silently like they can’t believe what Patricia’s telling them is true, and nobody makes a noise for so long that she speaks again, “Hello?”

“Sorry, I-” Beverly stutters, tries again, “Sorry, I’m still here. I can't- I’m so happy to hear that. How is he?”

“He woke up this morning, but it was only for a few minutes,” Patricia answers, “He seems to be exhausted, probably from the trauma he endured, but they think he’ll get better soon.” She pauses and then adds apologetically, “I was going to let you know as soon as he managed to stay awake for longer.”

“No, that’s okay,” Beverly reassures her, “I’m really glad I called. Is he allowed to receive visits right now?”

“Not yet,” Patricia says, “I think it’ll be a few more days before that’s possible.”

Beverly nods, remembers Patricia can’t see her and says, “I see. Would you mind keeping me posted?”

“I will,” Patricia promises, “I’m really sorry to cut this short, but I really need to go now...”

“It’s alright, I understand. I’ll hear from you soon, hopefully,” she says tentatively, then adds, “Thank you.”

Patricia tells her goodbye and ends the call. Beverly lowers her hand still gripping the phone to her lap and falls into the back of the sofa like her strings have been cut. No one says a word for a long moment until Bill finally breaks the silence. “Is this for r-r-real?” he asks and looks around at each of them before his eyes settle on Richie.

Richie smiles at him, then beams, his mouth completely out of control from how happy he’s feeling. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “Yes, Big Bill, this is fucking real,” he repeats cheerfully, he thinks his voice skirts the edge of manic.

“Should we go to Atlanta?” Ben asks from where he’s been perched on the edge of his seat since the moment they started the call. “That’s where he is, right? Or should we wait?” He looks to Bill, who doesn’t answer, and then to Mike.

“I’m not sure,” Mike shrugs, “Even if we went now-”

“We wouldn’t be able to visit him,” Eddie finishes for him. Richie turns to him and he continues, “I don’t know about you guys, but I have some things I really need to sort out.”

Richie nods, thinking about the mostly dirty or trashed clothes in his bag. They’ll need to stay in Atlanta for a few days, longer still before they can even see Stan, and he definitely doesn’t have enough stuff on him at the moment to make another trip. “I need to at least pick up some clothes,” he agrees, “I wasn’t planning on staying in Derry that long and considering all the blood and shit we’ve been rolling through, I’m running kind of low.”

“Let’s g-g-go home for now,” Bill resolves, “We can regroup in Atlanta as soon as P-Patricia calls.”

They agree to book the flights the next day and then Mike says, “I should probably head out,” and stands up.

“I’ll walk you out,” Bill stands too, and follows him to the entrance as Mike waves them goodnight and makes his way out.

Mike leaving prompts them too, and they get up one by one, ready to put an end to the longest day of their lives.

Beverly yawns and stretches, tells Richie and Eddie, “Goodnight guys,” and makes her way up the stairs, closely followed by Ben, who smiles and echoes her, and soon they disappear behind one of the doors on the higher floor.

Richie rolls his shoulders with a groan and turns to Eddie. “Still on for the sleepover?”

Eddie scratches the back of his neck nervously and nods, gesturing for Richie to go ahead. They make their way upstairs in silence and Richie counts the steps one by one to distract himself from the deafening beat of his heart that has started traitorously going a mile a minute for no reason at all. He unlocks the door to his room and mentally chastises himself for reacting like a lovesick teenager, and makes his way inside. Eddie stands awkwardly just inside the door and looks around the room like he hasn’t already been in it.

“So, uhm...” Richie gestures weakly to the bathroom, “Do you wanna go first, or…?”

Eddie nods. “Sure, thanks.” And walks past Richie to his suitcases, pulling out something to sleep in and closing the door behind him when he steps into the bathroom.

Richie hears the noise of the water being turned on in the sink and busies himself with finding something to wear to bed. He shrugs off his shirt and pulls carefully at the edge of the t-shirt under it, trying to move his back the least he can. The wound stings slightly at the movement and he groans, but it could be worse. He takes his pants off next, and fishes for his phone in the pocket while he waits for Eddie to finish.

It doesn’t take him long, and before Richie knows it, the water is shut off and Eddie is opening the door again, emerging in a pair of sweatpants and a soft t-shirt that Richie can tell is well-loved from the way the neck is stretched out enough to show most of Eddie’s shoulder. Richie swallows and looks away, but Eddie doesn’t notice. “Do you have a favourite side?” he points to the bed and asks Richie.

Richie shakes his head and gestures with his palms in a go-ahead gesture, before slipping quickly into the empty bathroom and closing the door behind him. He lets his head tunk against the wood and sighs. “Get a fucking grip, man,” he mutters to himself and lifts his glasses to his head to scrub a hand over his eyes. He finally straightens up after another sigh and walks to the sink to wash his teeth.

When he returns to the bedroom, the ceiling light is off and the only glow in the room comes from the small lamp on the bedside table. Eddie is lying on his back under the covers and looking at the ceiling with his hands on his chest, fingers playing idly with the edge of the bedsheet and jaw working as he thinks about Richie has no idea what. He looks down when he spots Richie and Richie reaches back to turn the bathroom light off before he walks first to the bedside table to leave his glasses and then to the other side of the bed and slips under the covers too.

“How’s your wound?” Eddie asks him.

Richie settles on his side and faces him. “All good, Dr K.,” he replies with a smile.

Eddie rolls his eyes but mutters a low “Good.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, so Richie closes his eyes, concentrates on his breathing and tries to relax the stiffness in his shoulders.

Then, Eddie speaks again, so quiet that Richie almost thinks he imagined it. ”Hey, Rich, can I ask you a favour?” he says tentatively, and Richie opens his eyes and nods. Eddie returns his gaze and says, “Can I- Would it be okay for me to crash at yours before we have to go to Atlanta?”

Richie widens his eyes in surprise. “Of course, Eds,” he says, then asks, “What about your things in New York, tho?”

Eddie looks away, Richie could swear it’s embarrassment what he sees on his face. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, “I told them I would work from home for a while.” He doesn’t mention his wife, and Richie doesn’t particularly want to know, doesn't want to think about the reason why Eddie doesn't mention her, so he doesn’t ask. “I can get a room somewhere or ask Bill if you’re busy,” Eddie adds when he doesn't say anything.

“Well, I don’t really have any work commitments at the moment,” Richie says bitterly, “Remember how I said I threw up after Mike called me?” Eddie's eyes drift to him again and he nods. “After that, I went on stage and forgot my entire routine and then I left to come here without telling my manager so there’s that.”

Eddie seems taken aback. He gapes at him without answering until he finally says with a grimace, “I mean I could pay rent?”

Richie snorts into the pillow, “Don’t worry, Eds, I’m not exactly hurting for cash right now.” Then, he schools his face into a considering expression and adds, “In a couple of months, though? Might be in need of a sugar daddy.” He winks at Eddie. “I like to live it wild.”

Eddie sighs long-sufferingly and turns his back on him, but Richie can see a small smile on his lips as he does. “Just go to sleep, Rich,” he mutters over his shoulder exasperatedly before clicking off the bedside lamp. “Thank you,” he adds in a whisper that makes Richie’s mouth curve in a dopey smile he’s glad Eddie can’t see.

He lies there on his side and looks at Eddie's tense shoulders relax and then go slack under the covers. He's exhausted, feels like he's been waiting to fall asleep ever since he lied down in the sun outside the house on Neibolt, but now that he finally gets to rest, he doesn't want to close his eyes, staves off the drowsiness by sheer stubbornness. A mounting sense of foreboding is tying a knot in the pit of his stomach and he's afraid that the moment he stops looking at Eddie and falls asleep, he'll sink into the turtle's white void again and realise that he's still on borrowed time. He can't go back and do it all over again a fourth time, there's no better version of reality than being alive and getting to keep Eddie too, he doesn't want to have to make any other choice. But he knows he'll have to sleep eventually, can already feel unconsciousness shroud him in darkness and creeping over him from the corner of his eyes and with every minute that passes, it gets harder and harder to fight the need to let his eyelids droop.

There’s no rippling whiteness in his dreams, and Richie rests easily through the night, the warmth of Eddie’s body next to him anchoring him to the mattress.

Richie wakes up to an empty room and a cold bed and his drowsy, sleep-addled brain promptly goes into a panic.

He fumbles for his glasses on the bedside table and pushes them on unceremoniously, sitting up and looking around the room for signs of Eddie's presence. He zeroes in on the suitcases in the corner and spots Eddie's toiletry bag sitting on the edge of the bathtub through the open door of the bathroom. It wasn't there when Richie went to sleep the night before and the mere sight of it manages to ease Richie's anxious breathing.

He sighs and pushes his sleep-rumpled hair away from his forehead with a yawn. Talk about rude awakenings. 

After washing his face and changing into the same clothes as the night before, Richie makes his way downstairs, where he finds Bill in the process of opening the windows of the sitting room and letting the warm, crisp end-of-summer air in. Richie looks around the scattered remains of their dinner and peeks over the entrance of the bar to see if any of the others are up yet, but he and Bill are the only ones there.

Bill stands in front of the large window with his back to Richie and his hands on his hips, head lifted to soak in the sun coming from outside. He jumps slightly when Richie greets him good morning and whirls on him with wide eyes before he realises it is only Richie and lets out a sigh of relief. It’s going to be a while before they can finally get rid of the paranoia, Richie supposes, but he can’t help the snort that escapes his mouth at the scared look on Bill’s face.

“Mornin’ Big Bill,” Richie says again as Bill flops down on one of the sofas, “Anyone else up yet?”

“Just Eddie,” Bill replies and lets his head fall onto the back of the couch. “He w-w-went out for a run some half-hour ago,” he elaborates.

Richie nods to himself, pouting a distracted, “Cool, cool cool,” and looking around the room again. He debates going digging for a trash bag in the bar area to get started on cleaning up but thinks better of it and asks instead, “What’s the plan for the day?”

Bill rolls his head toward Richie and opens his eyes to look up at him without relinquishing his position. “We’re meeting M-M-Mike for breakfast when Ben and Beverly wake up and Eddie gets b-back, and we should book the flights too,” he explains, then adds, “Aside from that you’re a free m-man.”

Beverly and Ben emerge from one of the rooms upstairs at that moment and make their way to the lounge already dressed and ready for the day. They greet Richie and Bill, and Ben soon disappears behind the counter of the bar, only to return a second later with a plastic bag. He starts making his way around the room, picking up empty takeout containers and liquor bottles, and Richie follows his lead and does the same while Beverly and Bill look at something on his phone.

They’re still cleaning up the mess when Eddie comes back. He waves at the room at large but doesn’t stop to chat, taking the stairs two at a time and making his way to Richie’s room for a shower. Richie tries not to look at the tan lines peeking from underneath his running shorts and the short hairs at his forehead that are curling with sweat, makes himself concentrate on the garbage he still needs to pick up instead, but he’s only mildly successful if the knowing look Ben regards him with is anything to go by. Richie feels a violent blush set his cheeks on fire and dives behind the sofa with the excuse to collect a used napkin that he’s pretty sure has been there since way before they set foot back in Derry.

Mike arrives at the Townhouse just as Eddie comes back from his shower in a fresh polo and - thankfully - long jeans and without further ado, they make their ways to the nearby dinner they’ve been unwittingly visiting for the past three weeks. Richie proposes they order an ungodly amount of pancakes and waffles, insisting that they all deserve the treat after the last few days they've had - almost slipping up and saying three weeks - and Eddie is the only one to protest, but it doesn’t take much convincing for him to cave and agree too, with the compromise that they get at least one omelette, just for healthy appearance’s sake. He only goes to the bathroom to wash his hands once, and Richie feels a little silly for being as overjoyed as he is about the fact.

When their plates are polished clean and the only food left on the table is half of Eddie’s omelette, they book the flights too, for that same night, and Mike being the one with the most belongings to pack, is the first to head back with the promise to meet again later as soon as he’s done.

Bill leaves soon after that, with the plan to check on the family of the kid who died at the carnival and while Ben and Beverly also seem doubtful about it being a good idea, Eddie is the only one to say it out loud. He turns to Richie for support and Richie agrees, but Bill is immovable, insists that he will be discreet, and when Eddie realises that arguing is useless, the conversation ends.

“Are you guys going into town, too?” Beverly asks Richie and Eddie, trying to move on from the tension.

Eddie nods, “I need to buy a new phone,” he replies and looks to Richie.

Richie looks back and doesn’t answer, so Eddie lifts his eyebrows in question. “Oh, yeah,” he says when he realises Eddie’s waiting for him to tell them his plans, “I’m gonna go… uhh...” he hesitates, can’t tell them he’s going to the kissing bridge because then they’d ask why and he really doesn’t want to explain that one. “...I think I’ll go take a walk or something,” he answers vaguely and turns away from Eddie’s inquisitive stare.

“Alright, then,” Ben announces and claps his hands on his thighs before getting up, followed by Beverly. “We’re heading back to the Townhouse,” he explains, “See you later?”

“Sure,” says Eddie. 

“Later,” salutes Richie, and they watch Beverly and Ben walk out of the diner before getting up too and doing the same.

They linger on the pavement outside the entrance for a moment without saying anything and looking anywhere but each other. Richie isn’t sure what the reason for the sudden awkwardness is, but feels it all the same, pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, not sure what to do with them as he stands there. “So I’m gonna...” he trails off and points with a thumb to the empty street behind him before nodding to himself and turning to go on his way.

“Uhm, hey, Rich?” Eddie stops him, and Richie turns to face him again. “Wanna walk together? You know, since we’re both going into town.”

“Sure, Eds,” Richie replies and offers Eddie a small smile. 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie mutters resignedly.

Richie chuckles and bumps his shoulder gently into Eddie’s as they start walking.

“It’s kind of weird to be back here, huh,” Eddie says nodding to the street in front of them and looking around at the shops, “without having to always be looking over our shoulders.”

“Kind of, yeah,” Richie replies weakly.

Eddie doesn’t really acknowledge him, keeps speaking like he’s talking to himself rather than Richie. “We couldn’t wait to get out of here when we were kids,” he reminisces. “And now we’re here, _again_ , and I can’t wait to leave, _again_ , and it feels like nothing’s changed at all because I’m just as scared of leaving Derry behind as I was before.”

Richie turns to Eddie and tries to catch his gaze because he can’t understand what Eddie’s saying, or rather, he can, but he doesn't know what he's supposed to hear under the words, what Eddie’s feeling. Richie doesn’t like not being able to read him. But Eddie keeps looking away, overly interested in the storefronts that haven’t changed in decades. “I’m not,” Richie says then, and that makes Eddie’s eyes snap to him. “I know there are good memories here, but they’re just as painful as the bad ones right now.”

Eddie seems baffled, he searches Richie’s face like that would be enough to know what memories he’s referring to and eventually gives up, drops his eyes to the ground under his feet. “Do you think that’s why we forgot?”

“What do you mean?” Richie asks.

“Do you think that was our payment?” Eddie clarifies, “For getting out of here and not getting stuck?”

“Like Mike?” Richie asks, but it’s not really a question. Eddie grimaces but nods anyway. “Our memories in exchange for happy, _rich_ ,” - Richie pauses on the word and rubs his fingertips together like he can touch the success they all managed to reach after leaving -, “lives? Probably, yeah. Our memories and the people we most care about.” And it’s true, life did seem to come awfully easy to the lot of them, aside from Mike who was stuck trying to keep alive the memories of a family that he might never get back in a shitty town where most of the people hated him. They all got money, Richie got fame and a dream job, but they never got anyone else because the only people that were _for_ them could have ended up never remembering each other again. Was it better to forget? Or was Mike comforted by the thought that he’d had a family once, one that counted, and was that knowledge enough anyway? What a shitty deal to make, either way.

Eddie stays silent, keeps looking at his feet as they walk and doesn’t reply for a long minute. Richie almost doesn’t notice when he’s not by his side anymore, and turns around to find him standing a few steps behind and looking back at him.

“Are you happy, Richie?” Eddie asks quietly, and it’s too intimate for the sunny sky they’re under. But that’s not the question he’s asking anyway. Eddie is asking: _Would you leave again even if you knew you’d forget?_ and _Would it be worth losing everything you’ve ever loved?_ or even _Would you take the loneliness if it meant you'd stop being afraid?_

“I-” Richie stutters. Whatever he was about to say gets stuck in his throat, and it goes tight around all the regrets he doesn’t get to voice. He wishes it was night, that he could hide in the blind spots of the streetlights or behind a glass of bourbon in the antiquated bar of the Townhouse. He never stopped being scared, not even forgetting was enough to erase that in him, all it did was take away the reasons and the only support system that ever gave him any hope of stopping being a coward. Richie thinks about being protected in the cage that was the closet for over thirty years without knowing what it was protecting him from, and he thinks of never being able to love anyone else as much as he does the man in front of him. He straightens his glasses and looks away from Eddie’s face. “I don’t know,” he lies, and doesn’t ask Eddie if he’s happy, because he already knows the answer.

Eddie nods, just once, and his fingers instinctively go to the ring on his left hand, sliding it up and down as he mulls over Richie’s words in his head. He lets go and straightens up, and Richie can tell that the moment is gone. Eddie looks over Richie’s shoulder and points to one of the shops behind him and when Richie turns to look, he sees an electronics store just a few feet ahead. “We’re here,” Eddie says, and pushes past him to the entrance. He holds the door open for Richie, but Richie shakes his head.

“I’ll wait outside,” he says, and Eddie doesn’t object, just looks into his face and lets the door close behind him as he enters.

When Eddie comes out of the store a few minutes later, Richie declines his offer to walk back to the inn together, saying that he wants to see if anything has changed at all in the town. Eddie seems to know that it’s a flimsy excuse to ask for space but doesn’t call him on it, walks away reminding Richie to be back in time to leave for their flights. “I swear I’ll make them leave you in Derry,” he threatens, and Richie rolls his eyes perfunctorily and waves him goodbye with a small smile.

He takes the path out of town and to the kissing bridge slowly, and every step feels like a choice that he’s at the same time obligated and exhilarated to make. Much like the cocktails they used to mix in the clubhouse from soda and alcohols of dubious origins, it brings bile to the back of his tongue.

The bridge is deserted, the noise of the water rushing underfoot resounds loudly between the trees and merges with the rustling of the terrain under Richie's shoes.

He doesn't carve the letters deeper into the woods this time either, just kneels in front of them and traces the divots with his fingertips. Twenty-seven years and an eldritch horror were enough to forget everything he'd ever been as a kid, but their initials have always been engraved under Richie's skin in a way that didn't need blades, that cut deep into Richie’s soul even when he couldn't remember. 

But he gets to decide now, Pennywise is gone, and even though the small town fear of what others would think didn’t disappear with his memories of Derry when he forgot what he'd been afraid of, he can choose the person he gets to be now, can do the hard work and the sacrifice to get there for once without anything holding him back. 

Richie remembers, doesn't think he will ever forget again how it feels to love Eddie Kaspbrak, but he's not a child anymore, he's not thirteen and confused by his desires, not sixteen and watching Eddie's back tearfully as he leaves Richie behind, and what he does with that love is in his hands, is his responsibility. 

He drops his hand from the fence post and stands up. He's making a choice now, and that choice is that he won't be selfish, won't hindrance Eddie with something that he knows should have died long ago. 

It might not be easy or quick, but Richie's heart is his own responsibility and eventually, it'll hurt less as long as he can see Eddie happy. It might be a lie, but Richie is used to repressing a whole lot more than a bit of heartbreak.

He wanders through town on his own until he’s almost late for the time they have to leave for their flights. He went hoping that he would get enough time to get his feelings under control, but when he steps up to the entrance of the Townhouse and the turmoil hasn’t left the pit of his stomach yet, he resigns himself to having to live with it for a lot longer and gives up the fight, knowing that it’ll take a while before the vacuum it leaves behind dissipates, if it does at all. 

The setting sun paints the sky purple and orange behind the inn, and the breeze and beauty of small-town Maine are enough to make the feelings small and remind Richie that no matter how insurmountable they feel in his wrists and his palms, the world doesn’t care. He’s small in a way that matters only to himself, and that’s reassuring.

He steps inside to the bustle of the other Losers coming in and out of their rooms with their luggage, making sure they’re not leaving anything behind that they might need later. It almost makes Richie laugh, the first time they did this, they would have never thought that Derry would rip a lot more from them than a forgotten toothbrush or shampoo bottle. He can tell that the others are worried about what leaving the town again might do to their memories, but he’s not too concerned because he knows they won’t lose each other this time.

Richie looks around the sitting room and notes that Eddie hasn’t come down yet, his suitcases conspicuously absent on the crowded floor. He goes for the stairs, sure that he’ll find him in Richie’s room when he goes to retrieve his duffel bag, but Eddie emerges from the higher floor before Richie can take the first step. 

The room Eddie comes out of is not Richie's, though, but his own, a dreadful expression on his face and shoulders set heavily. 

"Did you forget something in there?" Richie gestures to the closed door behind Eddie. 

Eddie looks back to the door and then to Richie, perplexed. The confusion dissipates when Richie raises his eyebrows in question. "Oh, uhm, no," he replies, looking around like the answer is somewhere in the air, "I was just- Just making sure I didn't actually."

As he says it, Richie sees his hand go tight around his brand new phone and when Eddie notices him looking, he quickly slips it into the pocket of his jeans. _Oh_ , Richie thinks, remembering the call Eddie made just a week before, in Richie's room.

It’s clear to Richie that Eddie isn’t ready to talk about it. He wasn’t the week before either, when he only told Beverly after she walked in on him arguing with Myra on Richie’s phone. So Richie doesn’t ask, even though he wants to know, needs to be certain that asking for a divorce really was what Eddie was doing in his room, and it takes a significant toll to suppress the urge. He nods instead, and brushes past Eddie on the stairs.

“I’m gonna grab my stuff real quick,” he tells Eddie, “Do you need a hand with your bags or are you hiding a couple more arms under that polo?”

“Oh, haha,” Eddie laughs sarcastically, but follows behind Richie to the room they’ve been sharing, “ ‘Eddie packed too much stuff’, very funny. I was just wondering when that was going to come up.”

“Hey, man, I didn’t say anything about how much you packed,” Richie shrugs innocently as he inserts the key into the door, “Maybe the fact that you’re mentioning it should tip you off to the fact that you already knew you were bringing too much stuff. Did you think you were gonna have to move back to Derry?”

“No, dipshit,” Eddie replies, “I was just being prepared. Not like some _other_ people-” he eyes Richie pointedly, “-who didn’t even bring enough clothes for a week.”

“Hey!” Richie protests, “I didn’t know I would be running around Derry’s sewer system again when I packed.”

Eddie just hums in reply, not all that convinced, and stands in front of his suitcases, trying to work out if there is any way at all for him to bring them down without having to make two trips.

“Come on,” Richie nudges him, already shouldering his own bag, “I’ll carry one.”

“You can’t, Rich,” Eddie shakes his head, “You can’t put strain on your injury, I don’t want you to pull your stitches.”

Richie wants to insist but Eddie’s right, his suitcases are humongous and it might definitely fuck up his wound if he took one. “At least let me carry the toiletry bag.”

Eddie considers it for a moment and finally obliges, passing Richie the cylindrical case and grabbing both his suitcases to follow Richie out of the room as he holds the door open for Eddie. “Just a sec,” he stops Richie from closing the door and leaves the bags on the landing before diving back inside. When he comes out empty-handed a minute later, Richie raises his eyebrows at him. “I was just making sure we didn’t leave anything behind,” Eddie explains.

Richie shakes his head fondly and joins the others downstairs and soon enough, they’re piling all their belongings into their cars and getting ready to leave Derry behind for the last time. Bill drives with Richie again, Ben and Beverly take Ben’s car, and Mike joins Eddie who takes his own rental, explaining that he needs to leave it at the airport as for contract. Richie worries briefly about what happened to Eddie’s car in the first version of the week, but it doesn’t really matter, because it was never left behind after all.

As eager as they all are to leave every bad memory behind, they hesitate before getting into the cars. Even Richie has to admit that saying goodbye to the town they grew up in feels a little bittersweet. He realises that the first two times this happened, it didn’t feel as real, like he knew somehow that it wouldn’t be the last of Derry he’d get to see and he has to wonder if the others ever felt the same way, because they never did seem as emotional about leaving as they are right now.

Derry won’t disappear after they’re gone, it’ll still be there for other kids like them to grow up in, a better place than they found it thanks to them, but something tells Richie that they won’t be seeing it change or not change another time, this goodbye is as final as it’s gonna get, and Richie regrets just for a moment not having carved his love deeper into the town, is afraid that it really will disappear this time, and then who will he be without it?

He shifts the car keys in his hand and finally turns his back to the Townhouse, opening the car door and climbing inside without looking back. They grew up once, without knowing what they were growing away from, and getting to grow up again now is gonna be a hell of a lot easier because they still have each other.

It’s melancholic, but Richie feels optimistic.

Bill is the last one to climb into the car, alongside Richie, and they drive to Bangor in silence, mourning one final ending to their childhood with a feeling stuck between relief and yearning.

They eat the over-priced food of the airport after checking in their luggage and wait for the time their flights are supposed to leave, talking about not much at all and making sure they have each other’s contacts in their phones. Beverly manages to snatch a picture of them this time too, and Richie can’t stop looking at Eddie in the spot next to him, it’s almost enough to erase his absence from the first image Beverly sent them. He can’t wait for them to have an even better one when Stan wakes up and they’re finally allowed to see him again.

When their gates are announced, they separate begrudgingly, hugging several times. Nobody cries, Richie notes, and maybe it’s because they already know they’ll be seeing each other soon, but the moment still feels emotional, tense with the apprehension of whether or not they’ll remember each other.

“Don’t worry guys,” Richie tries to break the awkwardness, “I could never forget all your juicy asses again.”

There’s a collective grimace from the others, who were all very carefully not mentioning it, but they laugh nonetheless, so Richie counts it as a net victory.

“You are so sensitive, Rich,” Eddie snaps at him sarcastically, “Always choosing the most poetic words for the situation.”

“You’ll be surprised to find I get paid for saying things, my dear Edward Spaghedward,” Richie shoots back.

“Well, not at the moment,” Eddie jabs, “if I remember correctly.”

Richie laughs heartily, not expecting Eddie to go for the low blow. “Ouch, Eds, that was harsh.”

Eddie seems momentarily regretful, but it passes when Richie keeps laughing and pats him on the shoulder.

Richie, Eddie, and Bill say their goodbyes again and finally part ways from the others whose gate is in the opposite direction, and make their way to their own waiting area where boarding is just about to start. They managed to get seats in the same row this time, but the flight to L.A. is still going to be nine hours long and the same kid that was seated behind him two weeks before has already started kicking Richie’s seat. He can see Eddie getting increasingly irritated by the mom not being able to keep her child under control and for as much as he’d like to see the inevitable fight that Eddie is about to start, Richie thinks not even Eddie can win against a bored nine-year-old. So Richie offers Bill and Eddie the sleeping pills he took the first time they flew home and dry swallows two - to the chagrin of Eddie - when they decline.

Before he falls asleep, he sends a string of peach emojis to the group chat and turns his phone off, conking the fuck out for the rest of the flight. 

He doesn’t see Maturin, doesn’t feel its voice in his chest like he was half-afraid he would, just sleeps dreamlessly through the journey and drools on Eddie’s shoulder where his head falls during his very long nap. Eddie doesn’t wake him even when he notices, prefers to give him shit as soon as they land and he’s allowed to shake Richie out of sleep in the rudest way possible and Richie tries to apologise, but he guesses it’s undercut by the snicker he unsuccessfully attempts to hide behind his palm.

Once off the plane, they wait for Eddie’s luggage and check their phones where Ben, Beverly, and Mike have sent a message as soon as they landed, and when Richie and Eddie bid Bill goodnight after loading their bags in the back of a taxi, it’s not quite as dramatic as the first two times.

“Let me know when you g-get home,” Bill demands after they hug and Richie and Eddie nod obediently, “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon, Bill,” Eddie says.

“See ya, Big Bill,” Richie salutes him cheerfully.

They watch his back for another second as Bill gets into the cab and drives away, and then hop into their own taxi, finally ready to get home.

“Ugh,” Eddie sinks into the backseat with a groan after Richie gives his address to the driver, “I can’t believe it’s almost 2 AM.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, “I think it’s gonna take a couple of months before the exhaustion of killing an eldritch horror” - at that Richie sees the driver send them a worried look through the rearview mirror - “goes away, but at least you can sleep in tomorrow morning?”

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and gives Richie a doubtful look, but hums in agreement anyway. He doesn’t say anything else, and Richie can tell that he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. He makes himself look away from Eddie’s face, suddenly self-conscious about how long it’s normal to look into another person’s eyes when they’re not really speaking, and distracts himself by unlocking his phone and reading a text from Mike about the unnecessary magnitude of Ben’s house. When he turns to Eddie again, he’s looking out the window at the passing scenery hidden under the blanket of the night and punctuated only by the colourful streetlights that slip past them with the side of the road.

Before he even realises it’s happening, Richie starts getting nervous. The closer they get to his house, the more worried he is about what Eddie will think, even though Eddie’s already been there once. In reality, that never happened, Eddie has never seen Richie’s house before and even when he did in the alternate version of the week, Richie wasn’t there to have to justify his decorating choices or the lack of cleanliness standards, and he’s sure Eddie won’t have any qualms about voicing all his complaints now that he’s - thankfully - unencumbered by his grief over Richie’s death.

He remembers The Cure LP in plain view of the living room just as the street around them becomes familiar, and hopes his expression is less affected than he feels when he finally pays for the drive - after brushing away Eddie’s attempt to do the same - and leads the way to the front door.

He clicks the door open and the light on and stands in the entranceway with his arms spread out.

“Welcome to Chez Tozier,” he demonstrates with a botched French accent that switches abruptly to a nasal Spanish, “Make yourself at home, Eduardo, mi casa es tu casa.” Some things are truly set in stone.

Eddie rolls his eyes half-heartedly and pulls his luggage inside before closing the door behind them. Richie stands there and raises his eyebrows, waiting for Eddie’s reaction. 

“Not bad, Tozier,” Eddie finally says. 

To anybody else, it wouldn’t seem like the ringing endorsement one would wish for, but Richie can see the glint of playfulness behind the exhaustion in Eddie’s eyes and the way his mouth twitches in a barely contained smile and it’s exactly what he asked for. His shoulders lose the tension he hadn’t realised he was holding and he drops his arms by his sides before turning to the corridor. “Guest bedroom is over here,” he calls over his shoulder to Eddie and walks ahead, opening the door to the room when they get there.

Eddie peeks inside and turns back to Richie who purses his lips and scratches his neck nervously, unsure of what to say.

Eddie hesitates in front of the door for another second before entering. “Goodnight, then,” he finally says with a nod, and makes his way into the room, pulling his suitcases inside after him.

“Right. Goodnight,” Richie replies and proceeds through the corridor, reaching his own bedroom and shutting the door behind him with a sigh.

He doesn't think twice about dropping his duffel bag to the floor, immediately forgetting about it, and makes quick work of getting undressed and into bed without bothering to brush his teeth, only barely remembering to text Bill that they reached home before he closes his eyes and lets himself relax into the sheets. 

Richie falls asleep with the kind of exhaustion that only reliving the same day three times can cause. He plunges into his own clean, soft mattress, can finally appreciate it without the weight of Eddie's death on his shoulders and bloodied hands, and doesn't even notice when the shift from wakefulness to sleep happens. 

He dreams of chaos, of pictures scattered in his brain between memory and reality, between what he's lived but erased and what is now the present, but his mind can’t settle on one single thing, the days flip behind his eyelids in a messy sequence of halves and blend without cohesion. As he sinks deeper into slumber, the events slow down and take a more defined form in his head, and they're not always pleasant. 

He twists and turns under the covers as Eddie bleeds on his glasses, kneels over him again and flies across the room. Richie lies motionless against the bed when It's cave goes blinding with light around him, when Maturin swims closer and Eddie is weightless in his arms. Eddie's face keeps changing between his hands, serene and sleepy one moment, bloodied and scared the next, while the light around him flashes and changes too, in a deafening overload of feeling. 

Every time the room around him goes white, Richie scrambles to hang on to it, to stop and rest next to this version of Eddie that won't exist anymore. But the blissfully suspended room is not there, it is only a fabrication of his subconscious now, long but a memory, another one he'll have to deal with on his own.

The next time Eddie's face goes slack with pain and blood dribbles from his mouth, Richie startles awake.

It takes him a second to remember that he’s safe and back in his room in L.A. 

Richie’s trembling all over, the sweat at the low of his back has his t-shirt sticking to his skin and the bandage around his stitches is moist with his nightmarish agitation. He takes a minute to lie back against the sheets that he’ll surely have to change and watches the curtains over his window dance in waves with the wind coming in through the open glass that he forgot to shut the night before.

When his breathing has calmed and a clattering noise comes from the kitchen, he finally hoists himself up to sit and then stand and makes his way to the living room without bothering to pull pants over his sleeping boxers.

He finds Eddie bent half into the small fridge, muttering to himself and pulling stuff out indiscriminately. He doesn’t hear Richie walking closer, padding on the floor bare-footed, and hits his head against the frame of the fridge when Richie startles him with a “Good morning.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie curses with a hand on his chest and the other on his head, swivelling to face Richie.

“Nah,” Richie says distractedly, sitting down on one of the stools by the kitchen island, “It’s just me.”

Eddie sends him a glare that Richie is pretty sure he isn’t supposed to find adorable, and turns his back on him, diving into the fridge again and reemerging with a box of leftover take-out with a red logo on it.

“Are you trying to rob me, Eds?” Richie leans on the counter with his chin in his palms and asks him with a shit-eating grin.

“Not even a coke addict that hasn’t eaten in three months would want the stuff in your fridge, Rich,” Eddie replies scathingly and gestures to the spread of mismatched and unappetizing food he pulled out of the refrigerator. “Why exactly would you need to open a new bottle of ketchup when you already have a perfectly good one still more than half-full?” he asks without really expecting an answer.

Richie pulls the two bottles in question closer with a considering hum and looks them over, turning and rolling them in his hands. “You see, Spaghetti,” he starts and immediately gets interrupted by Eddie’s “Don’t fucking call me that,” which he ignores to continue, “This one is mild, and this other one is extra mild,” he explains lifting one bottle at a time so Eddie can see the labels.

Eddie keeps glaring at him with a pout, and Richie doesn’t drop his irritating smile. It’s not the first staring contest he plays against Eddie, and it certainly won’t be the last he wins. Eddie finally snatches the bottles from him and scans the labels for himself, selecting one to put back into the fridge and discarding the other to the sink to be dealt with later.

Richie keeps looking at him as Eddie examines the rest of Richie’s spoils and trashes most of them.

“You need groceries,” Eddie points at him accusingly and says, “and supervision. As soon as I’m done here, we’re going shopping.”

“Oh, come on, Eds,” Richie whines, “I’m a forty-year-old man, I know how to feed myself.”

“Are you sure, Richie?” Eddie asks, lifting the dramatically past expiration box of leftovers. “Are you really sure?” he repeats, spelling the words like Richie is a particularly dense child in his first week of kindergarten, and Richie fleetingly suspects that sometimes he really is in Eddie’s eyes. The thought is incredibly amusing for some reason, probably because Eddie’s been looking at Richie that way since they were in actual kindergarten and it’s always had the exact opposite effect that Eddie wishes it had, only making Richie want to act even more childishly to get a rise out of him rather than like the adult he finally is.

He looks Eddie over and despite Eddie’s choppy movements, Richie knows that the irritation is mostly for show. Eddie has always liked pretending that he’s pissed at Richie, always snapped and forced his tone to let Richie know exactly how irritating he is, but it never lasted for very long. Eddie would cross his arms in front of his chest and huff and puff for a couple of minutes, and then he would go back to whatever he was doing and try to keep up the act by moving more forcefully than would be his actual mood only to forget that he was supposed to be angry at Richie in a matter of seconds as soon as he got distracted. Most of the time, that distraction would be Richie himself.

Eddie does the same now under Richie’s attentive gaze. He twists off the cap from the ketchup bottle in the sink and pours it down the drain, his shoulders relaxing with every movement as he rinses the glass and leaves it to dry upside down on the side of the sink. When he turns back to Richie with an expectant expression, Richie notices the dark circles under his eyes that he was too distracted by their little back and forth to notice before and sighs to himself, knowing immediately that Eddie’s night was just every bit as unpleasant as his own.

“You look like shit,” Richie blurts and winces, unable to stop himself and rephrase it so it doesn’t come out as an insult. Eddie purses his lips and quirks an eyebrow as if saying _Really, asshole?_

“Sorry, Eds,” Richie apologises, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that you look like you had a rough night.”

“You’re not exactly the picture of good rest yourself, Rich,” Eddie shoots back, but it lacks heat, and Richie nods in a _fair enough_ motion. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“I did, actually,” Richie replies, “I passed out when we got home and didn’t wake up once.”

Eddie doesn’t seem to believe that. “Well, good for you then,” he says. “Or maybe not, since you still look like crap.”

Richie laughs slightly and rubs his eyes under his glasses. “I didn’t say I slept well, smartass.”

Eddie doesn’t reply and Richie opens his eyes to find him looking down at his own hands on the counter, a deep frown between his eyebrows.

“Did you have nightmares about the deadlights?” Eddie asks in an almost whisper and looks up at him, locking him in place under his scrutiny.

Richie shakes his head. “No,” he says and it’s not a lie, but he doesn’t offer any more explanation.

Eddie looks like he wants to push for more, but he straightens up instead and looks away. Richie thinks for a moment that Eddie might be just as terrified of this conversation they're not ready to have as Richie is. “I wasn’t kidding when I said we need to go shopping,” Eddie changes the subject, “Do you usually go out without wearing pants, or are you waiting for something in particular?”

“The world isn’t ready for this,” Richie replies without missing a beat and stands up. “Actually, I need help with my bandage,” he adds hesitantly, ”I think the tape is starting to come off.”

Eddie nods and gestures to the corridor, following as Richie walks back to the ensuite bathroom of his room. He stops when they reach the guest bedroom. “I’m gonna grab my first aid kit,” he explains and joins Richie in his room seconds later holding his toiletry bag and a few paper boxes with medical-looking logos on them.

Eddie looks around the room and wrinkles his nose, but Richie steps into the bathroom before he can comment on the mess and the fact that Richie didn’t even bother to pick up his duffel bag from the floor, and Eddie follows him inside.

Richie takes his shirt off in one swoop and immediately hisses in pain, and when he turns to Eddie to ask him where he should sit, Eddie is looking away, the hint of a blush on his cheeks that makes Richie pause, flabbergasted.

“Where do you want me?” he asks when Eddie finally looks back at him, eyebrows quirked up in expectation.

Eddie coughs, and the blush gets brighter. “Sit on the edge of the tub,” he directs, his hands going tighter around the bandages he’s holding.

Richie does as instructed, perching himself on the wide edge of the bathtub with only one foot on the floor, and turns around to watch Eddie as he leaves most of the medical supplies in the sink and selects a towel from the rack by the door. Eddie positions himself behind Richie and carefully peels back the medical tape around Richie’s wound, making sure he pulls at the skin as gently as possible so as not to disturb the stitches. He discards the strip on the floor and turns on the shower faucet, letting the water get warm before he wets the towel and starts cleaning Richie’s back in slow, thorough movements, the same way he did in the bathroom of the Townhouse. 

The air around them is heavy with Eddie’s concentration and for once, Richie doesn’t feel the need to fill it with mindless chatter, content to just close his eyes under Eddie’s ministrations and enjoy his gentle touch on the warm skin of his back.

A faint memory, more of an agglomeration of several ones at the same time, tickles his mind. It's of Eddie cleaning up the Losers' knees, carrying bandaids and applying them gently on the scratched up skin of their elbows when they got a little to cock-sure of their biking abilities. It's of Richie tumbling into the curb while walking backwards so he could look at Eddie while he teased him and scraping the skin of his palms in his attempt to break the fall and Eddie immediately rushing to his side, hands half-buried in his little fanny pack and expression pinched into worry over Richie, irritation already gone and forgotten, always ready to take care of him without being asked. Richie always thought that he would even if actively refused. Eddie never could care less about shame and pride when it came to taking care of each of them, was always impatient with the "It's nothing, really" and the "It doesn't even hurt" excuses, and Richie had plenty of them for Eddie over the years. 

It always felt like as long as Eddie was there, Richie could heal from anything. 

It's a silly thought, but Richie almost wants to ask him, "What's the cure for broken heart, Dr K? Is it terminal?" He never would, though, because it's embarrassing, and it's a little more pathetic than even Richie is willing to be. 

Eddie pauses then, and Richie thinks he’s ready to reapply the bandages, but when Eddie doesn’t get up to grab them, Richie turns his head over his shoulder and tries to look at Eddie’s face to see what’s going on. He can’t quite get the angle right though, only managing to see the corner of Eddie’s mouth, set hard against his cheek in an almost-frown, and it isn’t much different than the look of concentration he usually sports.

He’s about to ask if something’s wrong with his wound, but Eddie beats him to it, breaking the silence with a hesitant voice. “What did you see in the deadlights?” he asks before resuming the delicate strokes on Richie’s exposed body.

Richie considers it for a moment. “I don’t remember, to be honest,” he answers, and finds that it is not a lie. Richie didn't give much thought to it after they got out of the cave that first, second, and even now on their third time. He was too preoccupied with Eddie the other two times, and it hasn’t really been on his mind this time either, seen as he’s spent the last few days debating what he should do about his feelings for Eddie and basking in his presence, trying to smother any hope that the thought of Eddie choosing to go to L.A. rather than back to New York to his wife might have awakened. He wonders for a second if maybe the two weeks he spent trying to get Eddie back were all a vision, after all, considering that both times he went back, he woke up right after being pulled out of the deadlights. But something in the way he went through those days, in the way those two weeks settled into his bones and warped his priorities like the tangible experience they were, makes him doubt it.

“Aside from Stan,” Eddie says, pulling Richie out of his thoughts.

“Huh?” he asks stupidly, not sure of what Eddie means.

“Aside from remembering Stan,” Eddie explains, “You said you saw in the deadlights that he was alive.”

“Oh, yeah. Yes, Stan,” Richie confirms, wincing internally at having almost slipped up. “Yeah, I saw Stan, but I don’t remember the stuff from the deadlights.”

Eddie hums and stands up, discarding the towel and grabbing clean bandages to reapply them over Richie’s wound.

“Do you think Beverly forgot, too?” he asks once he’s seated behind Richie again. “I mean we killed It, so that might be the reason you don’t remember anything else.”

Richie makes a non-committal noise in response and rubs his chin distractedly. “I’m not sure, but I guess it might be. You’ll have to ask her, though.”

Eddie smoothes his fingers over the corners of the newly reapplied medical tape and pats Richie gently on the shoulder, using the motion to push himself back on his feet. “There you go,” he says and steps up to the sink to start gathering his stuff. “I’m gonna go get dressed,” he adds, gesturing vaguely to the door behind him, “We can go out as soon as you’re ready.” He doesn’t wait for Richie’s answer before disappearing through the door and out of Richie’s room.

Richie washes whatever parts of himself he can reach without wetting his newly reapplied bandage and gets dressed in clean clothes from his open closet. When he goes back into the living room to wait for Eddie to finish getting ready, he finds him already there, sitting on the couch and fiddling with his phone with an intense look on his face. 

"Ready to go?" Richie asks and Eddie jumps to his feet with a startle, locking his phone's screen and shoving it hastily into the pocket of his jeans. 

"Sure," he replies, a little high-pitched, and tries to school his face in an unperturbed expression, but it doesn't quite catch. He grabs two colourful plastic balls from the coffee table that Richie has never seen before, and they make for the door, locking it behind them as they get out of the house.

“Dude,” Richie laughs slightly as they walk, finally recognising the objects in Eddie’s hand, “Did you bring reusable fucking grocery bags to the killing of our childhoods’ worst nightmare?”

Eddie goes a delicious shade of red to the tips of his ears and shoves the bags into the pocket of his hoodie, where they make a comically round lump on his side. “I always bring them with me when I travel,” Eddie replies with a haughty sniff, chin lifted in defiance as he looks at the street in front of them and keeps walking, “They can come in handy.”

“Right.” Richie nods, playing along, a hint of a smile still on his face. “Do you end up at your childhood friends’ houses and happen to need to buy groceries often during your travels, Eds?”

“Of course not, dipshit,” Eddie snaps back, wrinkling his nose. “They’re _bags_ , Richie,” he continues condescendingly, “You can use them in many different ways. Shocking, I know. Besides, it’s twenty-fucking-nineteen, man, who doesn’t have reusable bags at this point?” He gestures to Richie’s empty hands. “The environment is in _shambles_ , Richie, in shambles!” he insists, gesticulating wildly, “We should all be doing our part to reduce plastic waste-”

They go back and forth like that for the entirety of their grocery run, bickering senselessly through the aisles of some hipster place called Erewhon Market where Richie can’t look around without finding shelves filled to the brim with organic, biologic, super-mega-extra nutrient food and bearded men in plaid shirts that Richie didn’t even know was in the neighbourhood where he lives. When he asks Eddie how he found it, Eddie regards him with a judgemental look and asks him how long he’s lived in his house instead of answering.

Putting random shit in their cart to rile Eddie up is fun, like pushing and pulling Eddie has always been for Richie, but it’s also so blissfully domestic that Richie finds himself smiling at Eddie’s face with what he can only guess is the most smitten look in the history of unrequited love way too many times for someone who’s trying to squash any hint of feelings. He scolds himself mentally and tries to remember that this is only temporary, that Eddie’s gonna go home as soon as they leave Atlanta. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that he’d rather not have to swallow, but it works wonders to stop the hopefulness too, and that’s why he does it.

Although they walked on the way to the store, they have too many bags - most of which non-reusable, seen as Eddie only has two. Richie tries not to rub it in his face too much - to carry back on foot and end up having to get a car to get home. 

Richie’s mail is waiting by his door when they get there, and Richie pulls it inside along with some of the bags. He spots Stan’s letter among the others and makes sure to hide it under three other envelopes on the small table by the door so Eddie won’t see it. Richie already knows what it says, and there’ll be time to look at it after they visit Stan in Atlanta, giving the words Stan left for them when he thought they were his last a different context. Richie does it as much for Stan as he does for himself, he still remembers the sting of anger the letter brought him the first time he saw it and he thinks that letting Stan speak for himself before Eddie reads it might change the reaction he’ll get.

Eddie drags the shopping bags he’s carrying into the kitchen and sets them on the island while he opens the fridge and starts putting back groceries. Richie follows behind him and tries not to be too obvious about watching his forearms under his rolled-up sleeves as he moves food from one side of the kitchen to the other. 

He imitates Eddie’s movements, discarding most of the packagings and following his lead on how his fridge should be organised, not too broken up about the fact that it’s supposed to be Richie’s house and he should have a say in where everything ends up, content instead to let Eddie push him around like he’s sure he’s not going to get to experience much in the future and pretend that Eddie's making a place for himself in Richie's life.

When the only things left to put back are the vegetables in one of the paper bags, Eddie empties them in the sink and takes off his wedding ring before washing them in the same familiar motions that Richie has already seen him use once.

Eddie washes his hands insistently when even those have been put away, for long enough that Richie stops him with a hand on his forearm and a gentle “Eddie.”

“Sorry,” Eddie apologies needlessly, and finally rinses the soap off his skin. Richie pulls his hand back and looks at his face as Eddie smiles awkwardly and doesn’t return his gaze. “I don’t know why they feel so dirty,” Eddie’s voice shakes slightly, “It’s like I can _feel_ the grime on them and it just won’t come off.”

Richie sighs and steps back, unsure of what to say.

“I guess it’ll take a while before, you know…” Eddie trails off. _Before we stop feeling like all of us making it out alive is a bit too good to be true_ , he doesn’t say.

The golden band is still by the side of the sink when he's done drying his hands, and Eddie pointedly doesn’t look at it, averting his eyes like he's forgotten taking it off. Richie doesn't mention it, prefers to give Eddie the out he seems to so desperately be asking for. It’s as much of an out for him too, and Richie tries not to listen to that little voice in his head that tells him he’s a coward.

Bill calls them in the early evening, asking to meet at a bar that he likes and wants to show them a little ways away from Richie’s house. It’s not for any particular reason other than the need to be together, and Richie gets where Bill is coming from, they’ve been apart so many years that it seems stupid to waste the opportunity they have after finding out how close they’d been the entire time.

The place is a classy little spot with a menu full of over-priced and fancy-sounding drinks, and it fits Bill to a tee. Richie can effortlessly imagine him sitting at one of the tables in the corners where the light is softer and scarcer, rolling a bourbon glass in his hands and thinking about how genius the shitty ending to his next novel will be like he’s just solved world hunger while some soft jazz plays in the background. For some reason, the entire picture in Richie’s mind is sepia-coloured and it makes him snort as Bill greets the bartender by name and leads them to what he can only assume is Bill’s usual table.

“What’s so funny, dipshit?” Eddie elbows him as they make their way to sit.

“Nothing, nothing,” Richie answers, trying to suppress his smile, “I’m just not that surprised that Bill would like this place.”

Eddie gives a quick look around the floor and raises his eyebrows in amusement. “I know, right,” he agrees with a small smirk.

They spend the night drinking and reminiscing about their newly-recovered memories, but mostly drinking. It isn’t quite like a dam has opened, Richie muses, but more like the memories are accessible again when he tries. 

When Mike called, the reason that Richie threw up had been this overwhelming feeling of having found something that he hadn’t known he’d lost. All of a sudden, he’d been filled to the brim with the bursting weight of what his identity had been, of an explanation for his detachment and his inability to quite trust himself in his everyday life and the only way to keep breathing had been to physically get rid of something else, hence the vomiting. He remembers Eddie saying that he’d crashed his car and is tempted to ask how exactly realising that he could remember had felt to him, but they’re having a pleasant night and Richie can’t find the right moment to ask until he’s too distracted by his tipsiness anyway, and the intention slips away from him entirely.

Calling the memories back now is easy, it’s the most natural thing Richie’s ever done. They didn’t exactly hit him all at once, but they’ve been trickling in like they would have probably done if he hadn’t forgotten them in the first place. He’ll be looking at something and a memory will slide into his mind reassuringly like it never left, even though it would have been impossible to even know to recall it just a few weeks earlier. They don’t surprise him, he doesn’t get shocked by them because they’re as much part of him now as they used to be when they were buried, but sometimes they are embarrassing, especially when concerning Eddie.

The ones they share now are just fun, though, puzzle pieces chronicling the way they became a family, from the time it was still just the four of them, to when they finally met Beverly, Ben and Mike. Bill will pause for a beat too long at times, the shadow of Pennywise staining the corner of a happy echo from their past, or Eddie will start to recall an event and then give up when he realises it’s not as happy as the nostalgia makes it out to be but mostly, they’re happy memories, because they’re together in them, until they’re not, and the alcohol helps to gloss over the bad parts easily.

They all drink but Bill, he drinks, toasts, laughs and drinks again, and again, and then some more. 

Richie doesn’t stop him because when he looks at Bill he can tell that he’s happy, can read how light Bill feels and compare it to how weighed down he'd been when taking care of Richie that first week and of Eddie the second. He couldn't see the responsibility bringing his shoulders down then, could barely read the guilt underneath the need to take care of them, to make things better if there was a way to, but now that it's gone, now that things are how they should have been all along, the responsibility is more obvious than ever. Richie doesn't miss it, gets carried away in Bill’s giddiness instead and purposefully doesn’t think about anything else.

Engrossed as he is in Bill, he doesn't notice the looks Eddie keeps sending him, frowning with curiosity and concern, the question on his lips that he's not sure he wants to ask. Richie doesn't see them, and doesn't know that he'll have to answer eventually. The night is for them to be happy, and so will be a lot of other nights now that they've found each other again, even more so when they finally reunite with Stan.

The end of the night finds Richie trying to keep a very drunk Bill upright with an arm around his torso while Eddie uses Richie’s keys to open the front door of his house.

“Jesus, Big Bill, you’ve got the density of a boulder,” Richie tells him when he finally manages to get him into the guest bedroom and horizontal, and Bill answers only with an intelligible murmur and a garbled giggle.

“We probably should have stopped him after the sixth drink,” Eddie comments, standing by the side of the bed with crossed arms.

They look down at Bill spread out over the covers as he sleepily pulls one of the pillows toward his smiling face and promptly starts drooling all over it. Richie nods resignedly and Eddie grimaces, giving up any hope of getting that pillow back.

“So I’m gonna go sleep on the couch, I guess,” Richie announces and turns to make his way to the living room.

“Why?” Eddie asks, stopping him in his tracks.

“Because Bill has taken over your bed,” Richie explains confusedly, “and you’re a guest too so I’m very gracefully letting you take my bed.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Okay, first of all,” he starts, “that would just be good manners. And secondly, I’m gonna sleep here anyway.” When Richie shakes his head at him in a _Why the hell would you do that, Eds?_ motion, he continues, “I wanna make sure Bill doesn’t choke on his own vomit while he sleeps.”

“ _Jesus_ , Eds,” Richie scoffs empathically, “I don’t think he’s _that_ drunk.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says only and without much conviction, but doesn’t give any indication of having changed his mind.

“Suit yourself, then,” Richie shrugs and puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder solemnly. “Goodnight, my short friend.” 

He leaves the room before Eddie can respond, but still hears him call out an irritated, “I’m average fucking height, dickbag,” that follows him through the corridor.

Richie tries to sleep, he really does, and even manages to doze off once or twice, but both times he startles awake with the shock of a nightmare, the afterimages of blood still etched behind his eyelids though he can’t remember exactly what he was dreaming about. He gives up the third time he jolts awake with Eddie’s name on his lips and throws his legs over the edge of the bed with the intention of checking on Bill and spending the rest of the night mindlessly pretending to watch something on the TV in the living room.

He leans against the half-open door of the guest bedroom and looks inside for Bill and Eddie’s sleeping forms. The only light in the room is the green glow of a vintage digital clock he remembers buying somewhere in Minnesota during one of his tours and it’s not enough to see anything more than a lump underneath the covers that he assumes is made of Bill and Eddie, so he listens carefully instead, and is satisfied when he hears soft snores coming from the mattress.

He makes his way to the living room with a sigh, rubbing at his aching eyes underneath the glasses and doesn’t pay much attention to where he puts his feet, walking to the sofa blindly and only uncovering his eyes when he’s about to sit down. Richie jumps and screams, surprised by the unexpected shape of a person in the dark half lying on the cushions, face illuminated by the white light of a phone screen.

“What the _fuck_ , Richie?!” Eddie hisses at his embarrassing show of dignity, “It’s 3 AM, what the hell are you screaming about?”

“What the fuck, _me_?! What the fuck, _you_!” Richie defends himself, still recovering from his scare. He presses a hand against his chest and tries to slow down the hammering rhythm of his heart. “What the fuck are you doing lying in the dark? You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Inside voice, Richie,” Eddie hushes him. “Bill took over the bed, and I couldn’t sleep anyway,” he explains and sits up, making space for Richie who accepts the invitation easily and flops down next to him.

“Yeah, me too,” Richie says, “You could have at least turned on the TV.” He does just that, grabbing the remote from the coffee table and switching it on, playing the first show he sets his eyes on and lowering the volume.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Eddie mutters and sinks lower into the cushions, leaning his head against the armrest and pushing his freezing cold feet under the soft skin of Richie’s naked thighs.

Richie hisses slightly at the contact but doesn’t move away, hand going to Eddie’s ankle instinctively. It shifts under his palm, but Eddie doesn’t say anything, eyes fixed firmly to the images on the screen.

The TV washes the room with muted light and the soft sound of the people on screen is low enough that it lulls Richie into relaxation to the point that he has trouble keeping his eyes open. Eddie is silent next to him, arms resting across his chest and face turned to the screen in a position that can’t possibly be comfortable for more than two minutes. Richie looks at him from the corner of his eye and registers the crease between his eyebrows and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he watches on, and doesn’t notice that his thumb has started rubbing slow circles into the skin of Eddie’s ankle.

He can feel his head gradually falling backwards and his shoulders go heavy and pliant against the back of the couch, but he’s startled out of his drowsing when Eddie breaks the silence, without looking away from the TV.

“What did you dream about?” he asks uncertainly, in a voice small enough that it's hard to hear it even over the barely audible volume of the TV.

Richie swallows and blinks his eyes in a couple of quick successions, trying to push away the sleepiness and straightening his back where he sits before he answers. “Just, you know, the cave,” he replies vaguely and tightens his hand imperceptibly around Eddie’s ankle.

Eddie hums and looks up at Richie, pulling himself on his elbows so he can sit up. He lets his feet fall to the floor and Richie lets go of his leg and immediately misses the contact, but then Eddie straightens up and repositions so he’s sitting next to Richie, pressed against him from shoulder to knee. He watches his fingers where they’re pulling at a loose thread in his sleeping shorts and Richie just stares at the side of his face, unable to look away.

“I always miss,” Eddie finally speaks and doesn’t meet Richie’s eyes, “When I throw the fence at It in my dreams, I always miss and you never make it out.”

Richie takes in a shaky breath and lets it out of his nose heavily, not knowing what to say.

“Or sometimes you don’t roll us far enough and you end up getting stabbed in the waist and there’s always so much blood,” Eddie continues, looking up at Richie tentatively. His eyes are wet and pained, but he doesn’t cry.

Richie returns his gaze and stills Eddie’s fidgeting hand with a gentle touch, feeling guilt burn in his chest with the knowledge that Eddie’s nightmares are showing him what Richie tried so hard to erase. “It didn’t happen,” he says adamantly, “It’s never going to happen.”

“I know,” Eddie nods and lifts the corner of his mouth in the attempt of a smile, “But it still sucks.”

Richie looks from one of his eyes to the other, painfully aware of how close their faces are. He would be able to count the faint freckles on the skin of Eddie’s cheeks if he wasn’t so enthralled by the look in his eyes. He swallows roughly and tries to speak, but his voice comes out raspy and unsure. “You die,” he says, lips tight around the words. The cover of darkness doesn't make it easier to let them out, but it hides any lie Richie refuses to come up with, and it's almost the same thing. “You always die, and when you don’t, I don’t know how to bring you back.”

Eddie’s small smile falls away and he opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then closes it again wordlessly, the muscle in his jaw clenching tightly. He closes his eyes and Richie sees a tear slip down his cheek before Eddie turns away and leans back into the sofa with a sigh. He grabs Richie’s hand silently and turns it to expose his palm, following the lines on the skin with his fingertips and looking up at the TV again.

Richie tries not to move, too afraid that if he does, the moment will break and Eddie will pull away. But Eddie doesn’t for a long time, keeps touching him so casually that Richie feels stupid for how much it makes him feel.

They stay there for the rest of the night and eventually, Richie falls asleep against Eddie’s shoulder. He thinks he wakes at one point, can feel Eddie wrapped around him, shushing and holding him as he shakes out of a nightmare, but he falls back into sleep almost immediately after and when he wakes up in the morning, he’s lying on the sofa alone, a thin blanket spread over his weary limbs, and he’s sure he must have imagined it.

Richie smacks his lips together to try and dissipate the cottony feeling in his mouth and pushes the blanket to his feet, sitting up on the cushions and looking across the back of the sofa to the kitchen. 

He hears the front door click shut from the entrance and realises that what woke him up was the rustling noise of Eddie coming back from his run when he appears over the short wall that divides the kitchen from the rest of the house. 

"Hey," he greets Eddie groggily, squinting his eyes against the morning light and waving weakly. 

“Oh, hey,” Eddie replies, fidgeting with Richie’s house keys in his hands. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Not really,” Richie says, and they look at each other hesitantly. Richie wants to ask about the night before, wants to know if Eddie really did hold him or if it was just another dream, but he can’t find the right words, so he doesn’t say anything. He lets his eyes roam over Eddie’s body instead, getting caught by the small line of pale skin that peeks from his shorts and the way his t-shirt sticks to the planes of his chest where it’s sweat through. He forces himself to look away and nervously pats down the curls at his forehead where they’re still mussed with sleep. “Do you think Bill’s still alive?” he finally asks, trying to break the weird tension between them.

Eddie opens his mouth to reply but Bill interrupts him, choosing that moment to emerge from the corridor. “Yes, and I’d r-r-really like not to be.” His eyes are bleary and blood-shot and his hair is standing every which way, he’s centuries away from the giddy mood he was in the night before when the hangover hadn’t hit yet, and if Richie didn’t know for certain that his current state was alcohol-induced, he would guess Bill is really a zombie come back to feed on them.

“Hey, Big Bill,” Richie greets him cheerfully, and Bill winces at the loudness of his voice, pulling a smirk out of him.

“Ugh, Richie,” he groans, “Please, shut the fuck up.”

Richie snorts while Eddie tries not to smile too obviously and pats a hand on Bill’s shoulder before walking past him. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” he announces, “Good luck, Bill,” and disappears through the corridor.

Richie hoists himself up from the sofa and makes his way to the kitchen, taking pity on Bill. “Coffee?” he asks, and when Bill nods miserably he gestures to the kitchen island and steps in front of the stove while Bill takes a seat on one of the stools.

“The b-blackest coffee you have,” Bill requests, “Please, kind sir.”

Richie smiles and salutes him, busying himself with the coffee machine, positioning one of the filters and loading it up with ground coffee from a bag he keeps in one of the cabinets. 

“Was the bed comfortable?” he asks while he waits for the coffee to finish brewing.

“P-pretty f-fucking comfortable, actually,” Bill replies, leaning heavily with one elbow on the counter and looking up at Richie with half-lidded eyes, “That m-mattress feels like a cloud, where did you get it?”

Richie shrugs. “I don’t really remember,” he explains, “It came with the bed.”

Bill nods in understanding and closes his eyes, a yawn taking over his features. “How’s it buh-been living with Eddie so far?” he asks out of the blue, “Has he made you c-clean the entire house yet?”

Richie forces out a small smile and then turns to the coffee machine, looking it over uselessly so Bill can’t see his face when he answers, unsure of what might show up there. “It’s not all bad,” he replies casually, “My fridge is full now.”

Bill chuckles and Richie goes to grab a mug from the cabinet over the sink. When his eyes pass over the counter, he notes that Eddie’s wedding ring isn’t there anymore. Richie tries to remember if he saw it on Eddie’s finger when he came back from his run and he’s fairly sure it wasn’t there either. He tries to squash down the unwarranted feeling of triumph he gets when he thinks about Eddie stashing it away and out of sight. Before he can fail, he’s distracted by the beeping of the coffee maker announcing that the coffee is ready, so he pours a full mug for Bill and fills another one with what’s left for himself.

Bill thanks him briefly and starts drinking and they make small talk as they finish the coffee.

When Eddie comes back from his shower, Bill takes the opportunity to freshen up before he heads out and Richie rinses out their mugs before doing the same, leaving Eddie in the living room. After Bill leaves, Eddie pulls out his laptop and announces his intention to get some work done and Richie shrugs and decides to do the same, to finally try and get to the dozens of e-mails that he knows are waiting for him after his fiasco in Chicago.

He manages to go through about half of them, replying when it’s required and apologising in most. A good chunk of the messages is from his manager asking him where the hell he is and what the hell happened and Richie replies a couple of times, explaining what he can without coming off as completely insane and ignoring the rest when he decides he can’t possibly look at one more of them and closes out of the internet to open a writing document instead. He watches the little cursor blink at him threateningly from the top of the empty page and tries to remember what it was that made him think he was equipped to start writing his own shit in the first place.

Richie hasn’t told his manager his intention yet, preferring to come up with something at all before he breaches the topic, but the prospect seems insurmountable right now with all the emptiness looking back at him from his laptop screen. Even without knowing whether what he eventually comes up with will be decent or not, he knows that there’s a strong possibility of his manager rejecting his proposal, and he finds that he’s prepared to make himself start over and beg and crawl for another agency if that will end up being the case, even though it’s the first time the thought has occurred to him.

He’s not sure what’s possessing him to have such unbidden optimism, maybe it’s the fact that three weeks ago he thought his life was ending and that didn’t happen after all, or maybe having Eddie around has been unlocking a kind of hope that he forgot he was capable of, but he decides that the only thing he can do is grab onto the feeling with all the strength he has before it disappears and try to make the most of it while it’s still there. 

Eddie’s phone rings from the coffee table, interrupting his thoughts, and after looking at the number, Eddie takes the call outside the window of the living room. He’s done the same with all the calls he’s gotten so far, but Richie sees a particularly sombre expression on his face when he looks at this specific number and has to try especially hard to tune out the echo of the conversation that drifts in through the open glass. 

It doesn’t work. Richie can still hear Eddie say his wife’s name a couple of times and the mention of _lawyers_ and _proceedings_ , and when Eddie comes back with his lips pursed and his eyebrows set in a heavy frown, Richie fixes his eyes to the computer, trying to hide any sign that could give away that he was eavesdropping.

“I remember this record,” Eddie says in the quiet of the room, “You guys gave it to me for my birthday.”

Richie looks up. Eddie is standing in front of the bookcase where he keeps his LPs, hand extended to the red paper cover of the _Wish_ album there. He turns his head over his shoulder and Richie swallows the lump in his throat, hoping his face is as carefully blank as he’s willing it to be.

“Do you mind if I put it on?” Eddie asks and Richie shakes his head, gesturing to the record player in a go-ahead motion.

Soon, the rhythmic guitar notes of _Open_ fill the air around them and Eddie sits back down on the couch with a sigh, resuming his work like he wasn’t interrupted at all.

Richie keeps staring forcefully at the screen of his laptop and does not write a single word of his document, unable to stop his eyes from drifting to look at Eddie from the corner of his eye, following his lips as they mouth and hum around the lyrics of the songs. Richie doesn’t think Eddie’s even aware he’s doing it because he keeps clicking at the keyboard, filling the screen with numbers and figures, singing along distractedly with a soft voice, words easy on his tongue like they never left. There’s so much of the sixteen-year-old Richie remembers there that for a second Eddie hasn’t grown up at all, and Richie hasn’t either, hasn’t stopped feeling those same feelings he’s been carrying with him ever since Derry.

Richie’s fingers are frozen over the keys and his tongue has turned to lead in his mouth and he thinks with startling and terrifying clarity at the same time _I’m fucked_ , and _I will never stop loving this man_ and he feels like he wants to get up and run until the entire world fills the space between him and Eddie on the sofa.

Beverly calls them in the early afternoon. The record has long finished playing by then and Richie has turned on the TV instead, unable to endure the silence as Eddie works and he tries to write, but not really watching whatever it is that’s playing.

She tells them that Patricia called to let her know that Stan finally managed to stay awake for more than a couple of hours and that the doctors have agreed that he can receive visitations if he wants to and they arrange to take the first available flight out to Atlanta and send her the details as soon as they’ve booked it.

They call Bill next, make the booking while on the phone with him and plan to meet at the airport later in the evening. The flight isn’t for a few more hours still, barely any earlier than the one they booked the past two weeks, and it’s going to be late night when they finally land. Eddie makes his dissatisfaction known but there’s really nothing he nor Richie can do about it so he resigns himself and begrudgingly sends Beverly a copy of their tickets.

They spend the time before they have to leave packing for their stay in Atlanta. Richie manages to convince Eddie to only take the smallest of his suitcases - satisfaction blooming in his chest when he notices that Eddie has opted to leave most of his medicines behind - and doesn't even consider what it must say about Eddie's intentions of returning to L.A. after they leave Atlanta. Eddie insists they ride to the airport well in advance of their flight, which leaves them to nurse a quickly cooling cup of Americano while they sit at a small table of a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf as they wait for Bill.

“It kinda feels like cheating, doesn’t it?” Eddie asks abruptly after swallowing down a sip of his coffee with a grimace.

Richie moves the paper cup to his mouth to take a drink too, but thinks better of it when he remembers he accidentally poured enough creamer in it to irremediably prevent the liquid from being called coffee ever again and instead says, “What do you mean?”

“Stan being alive,” Eddie clarifies, “I mean I’m glad he’s not… you know… But it doesn’t seem like it should be possible.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Richie shrugs. “It shouldn’t have been possible for all of us to make it out of Neibolt either, but we did, didn’t we?” he says darkly and looks into the cup instead of back at Eddie, feeling his eyes on him.

“But none of us died,” Eddie insists, and Richie winces. “Stan did, and then miraculously came back,” he continues, unaware of Richie’s reaction, “His wife said so.”

“Look,” Richie starts with determination and makes himself return Eddie’s gaze, “I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Is it too good to be true? Yeah, it is,” he doesn’t wait for Eddie’s reply, “But listen, Eds, we’ve gone through stuff that should have been too _bad_ to be true and it still happened anyway. So I’m just gonna take this one fucking good thing,” he says a bit too forcefully, “and not question it just for this once.”

Eddie seems taken aback by his sudden irritation and Richie sighs regretfully, shoulders dropping.

“Sorry,” he apologises, “I didn’t mean to be a dick.”

“No, I- I get it, I think,” Eddie reassures him, “It’s just that so much fucked up shit has happened, it’s hard to take the good things at face value, you know?”

Richie nods weakly and tries to make himself smile. “Yeah, I know,” he replies, “I’m still sorry, though.”

Eddie returns his smile and reaches a hand to squeeze his wrist gently. “It’s fine,” he says, but before Richie can dwell on the feeling of Eddie's hand on him, Eddie pulls away to check his phone as it vibrates where it’s lying on the table by his elbow. “It’s Bill,” he announces, “He says he’s at check-in.”

They get up and ditch their cups in the closest garbage can, still more than half-full of disgustingly sweet coffee, and make their way to meet Bill at the check-in area at the entrance of the airport.

The flight is uneventful, the later it gets, the harder it is for Richie to keep his eyes open against the lulling hum of the plane around him. He dozes into sleep a couple of times, Eddie and Bill seem to be deep in conversation about whatever new story Bill has started writing and Richie is happy to let them be, only catching every two words they say and trying to fill in the blanks of the plot with his own imagination. It makes for a very weird and disconnected tale, but it works wonders for distracting him to the point of sleep.

The light of the plane is bright enough that for a second he thinks he’s descended into Maturin’s void again, but neither the ripples nor the swooshing sound reverberates around him, only the faint noise of chatter and Eddie and Bill’s reassuring voices. For the first time since last coming out of the deadlights, he’s confident he’ll never see the turtle again.

Ben, Beverly, and Mike are waiting for them at arrivals in Atlanta. As soon as they spot Richie, Eddie and Bill, they start waving and yelling for them excitedly, unaware of the peeved looks that gets them by the few other people in the airport.

They’re all over each other in a second, greeting and hugging hard enough that anyone looking from the outside would probably guess they haven’t seen each other in years. Despite the fact that it’s only been two days, Richie does feel as happy of seeing them again as he did in Derry after almost three decades and he lets himself hug each of them back just as vigorously as they do, making sure to kiss their faces in sloppy, loud kisses that get him more than one swat to make his stop. He’s smiling so hard, his cheeks almost hurt with it.

They get rooms in the same hotel they have so far, close to the hospital where Stan is staying, and separate reluctantly, only because they need to get at least a couple of hours of sleep before it’s time to go visit him.

Richie feels weightless when he falls into bed in his boxers, healing wound pulling slightly at the skin of his back, and falls asleep with the thought that it might be the first time he only feels relief at the knowledge that they’ll be seeing Stan in a few hours.

Eddie’s the one to knock on his door the next morning.

Richie is already awake and pulling on his jacket to go out. He opens the door expecting Ben on the other side and visibly pauses when the person staring back at him is Eddie instead.

“What?” Eddie asks, bringing a hand to his uninjured cheek, “Do I have something on my face?”

“Aside from the gnarly stab wound that’s surely going to leave a badass scar?” Richie replies, finally getting a hold of himself and stepping out into the carpeted corridor. “Nope, just as dashing as usual, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie mutters a low “Shut up” and looks away, a faint blush reddening his cheeks, and walks ahead of Richie to the elevator.

“The others are already downstairs,” Eddie tells him as the doors slide closed, “Beverly called Patricia, she said visiting hours start in about...” he looks at his watch, “thirty minutes.”

“Cool, cool,” Richie says and pats his hands distractedly against the sides of his thighs, watching the numbers change on the elevator keyboard.

Eddie unlocks and locks his phone screen a few times as they slowly move downward and when they finally get to the ground floor, he checks the phone with a frown one last time and then pockets the device, already stepping out. Richie follows behind him without speaking, tries to decipher the weird silence they can’t seem to break.

Mike, Bill, Ben and Beverly are waiting for them a few feet from the elevator, talking among themselves with smiles on their faces. Richie makes his way to Beverly, who’s standing with her back to him and Eddie, and hugs her shoulders from behind, planting a noisy kiss on top of her curly red hair. She giggles and lifts her face to look up at him.

“Hello to you, too, Tozier,” she greets him cheerfully.

“Good dawning to thee, lady Marsh,” he replies, rounding the words thickly with a lousy British accent.

She laughs again and he lets go, stepping back to stand in the empty spot next to Eddie.

“It’s a little early,” Bill says, “But should we g-get going?”

They respond with a choir of yesses and start walking to the entrance.

“Should we grab food on the way?” Mike suggests as soon as they emerge on the pavement, “I’m kind of starving for breakfast and Stan might be happy to eat something that isn’t hospital food.”

“That’s a good idea,” Eddie agrees, “Hospital food is shockingly low in nutritional value.”

Richie smirks to himself, shaking his head discreetly at how predictable his friends are, but he finds it kind of comforting to know that some things are fixed in stone like that, even something as small as wanting breakfast and always seeking it in the same way. He watches as Beverly falls into step with Ben, sliding a hand into his, and pulls out her phone to look for the closest bakery. By now, Richie could probably find it without needing the map, but he doesn’t say anything, trying to avoid unnecessary suspicion, and follows them into the same shop they chose the last two times they were in Atlanta.

They buy a paper bag full of pastries in every shape and form, enough for all of them and Patricia, and Richie reminds them about the strawberry ones for Stan, enlisting Eddie’s help to choose three.

They chat animatedly for the rest of the way to the hospital, and the weird awkwardness that had enveloped Richie and Eddie during the elevator ride seems to dissipate with the others around them.

They arrive with a few minutes to spare before visiting hours are set to officially start, but the nurses let them up anyway when they mention Patricia, giving them the floor and room numbers and pointing them to the closest lift.

The ride is slow and tense. Richie looks around at the others and nobody speaks. Ben and Beverly are holding hands so tightly that it makes Richie wince in sympathy, Bill can’t seem to decide whether he wants to look at the elevator buttons or Mike who’s not returning his gaze, isn’t looking at any of them at all, stare fixed to a spot on the floor just in front of his shoes. Eddie is staring straight ahead but his gaze is far away, his hands are clasped together, and he keeps circling his left ring finger in an inadvertent motion like he’s forgotten he won’t find his wedding band there anymore.

Richie clicks his tongue casually and says, “You guys are so quiet. If I didn’t know Stan is alive, I’d think we were going to his funeral.”

It has the desired effect because the silence breaks all at once.

“Oh, _Richie_ ,” Beverly reprimands him.

“Beep b-beep, man,” Bill calls at the same time.

Ben and Mike smile reluctantly and Eddie only regards him with a slightly disgusted frown. Richie lets their indignant reactions wash over him like compliments and looks back with a shit-eating grin on his face.

As soon as the doors slide open, they step out and make their way through the corridor, passing room after room until they finally get to the right door. It’s slightly ajar and Richie can hear the low murmur of Patricia and Stan coming from inside. Bill steps ahead and pushes it open gently, walking in without hesitating.

Stan doesn't see them at first. He's turned to Patricia, chatting quietly about something Richie only catches the tail end of, but he stops when Patricia goes quiet, eyeing them over Stan's shoulder with a hesitant but gentle smile, and turns around on the bed to follow her gaze. His eyes flit from them to his wife, looking for confirmation that they’re really there and Patricia nods with a small quirk of her eyebrows, her smile growing bigger.

Stan looks at each of them one by one, surely trying to reconcile the young faces he remembers with their current appearance and relief floods his expression when he realises they’re all accounted for, not one of them missing.

They stand there dumbly without saying a word, uncertain of what exactly should be the greeting for seeing one of your best friends again after almost three decades and a suicide attempt. Even Richie, who’s already seen Stan alive twice, can’t find the right words and can’t do more than smile back as Stan’s eyes go wet with happy tears.

Patricia squeezes one of Stan’s hands in hers and then kisses it before letting go and standing up with a quiet “I’ll leave you guys some space,” and closing the door behind her when she leaves the room.

“You made it,” Stan says in a shaky voice, “You’re all here.”

“Yeah,” Bill breathes, still fixed to the spot.

“I’m sorry,” Mike blurts before Richie can even think of something to break the tension, and Stan’s gaze immediately snaps to him, eyes wide and surprised. “You- you tried-” Mike starts to say, but the words get choked up in his throat and he stops, bringing a hand to his face and trying to hide the tears sliding down his cheeks.

Bill throws an arm around his shoulders and pushes him to the bed where Stan is waiting with a hand already reached out to drag him in a hug.

“Hey,” Richie calls out, trying to lighten the mood, “where’s _my_ apology for almost dying at the hand of a horror space clown?”

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie hisses, and Mike snorts through the tears, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking the comfort offered by Stan, who sends Richie a small but grateful smile. 

Beverly nudges him slightly in the shoulder before stepping closer to the bed and sitting at the foot.

They slide effortlessly in Stan’s space, each taking a spot like it was assigned at birth and it’s reminiscent of the way they used to always know where they should stand when they were kids. One would think that with seven people, it would be hard to make enough space for everyone but for them, it was never an issue, it was like a magnetic field pulling them exactly where they should be, fitting together like parts of a whole, and that’s how Richie feels surrounded by everyone, like his body is complete again and nothing could shatter the happiness it brings him.

When Mike’s tears subside, Ben reminds them of the pastries they brought and hands the bag to Stan so he can be the first to choose. He immediately goes for the strawberry-filled ones, biting into one and taking out two more, claiming them for himself with a challenging look. No matter how many times he goes through it, it doesn’t stop making Richie feel proud of himself.

“How are you feeling?” Beverly asks Stan before biting into a pastry herself, “I mean, all things considered.”

“I’m okay,” Stan replies, “I’ve been sleeping a lot, and I’m always tired, but it’s gotten better since I first woke up. What about you guys? It’s been almost thirty years, what are you doing now?”

“Eddie Spaghetti, here, has set a Guinness World Record,” Richie says and circles an arm around Eddie's shoulder, shaking him slightly and getting confused looks from all around the room.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Eddie asks with a frown but doesn't pull away.

“What?” Richie responds, feigning casualness, “Didn’t you say you found the most boring job in the world?”

Eddie groans and rolls his eyes so hard that Richie worries he must have strained something. Beverly snickers from the bed, hiding it behind her food, and Ben smiles too, while Bill pushes one of Richie’s shoulders gently.

“So, same as always, huh, Richie?” Stan comments, but he’s grinning too.

They spend most of the morning trying and failing to catch up with everything they’ve missed, too excited about being together not to get derailed, but it doesn’t matter because there’ll be plenty of time for it in the next few days and weeks, and many, many more years after that. They manage to drag in a couple of chairs to sit down around the room and when Patricia comes back, they offer her a seat - which she declines - and some of the sweets they bought - which she accepts gladly.

When lunchtime comes around and a nurse brings Stan his tray of sad hospital food, they split up. Bill, Ben, Beverly and Richie volunteer to go out and bring back something a little more colourful to eat while Eddie and Mike stay behind, and Stan manages to convince Patricia to go home for a while so she can get some rest and freshen up. 

They’ve just pressed the elevator button and are waiting for it to get to Stan’s floor to head out when Richie realises he must have left his phone in Stan’s hospital room.

He says as much to the others, then gestures to the corridor behind him and adds, “You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up in a bit.”

They nod and walk through the sliding doors while Richie turns back the way he came, walking to the right door. He stops when he sees Eddie just outside of it, his back turned to Richie, and smiles, already planning on making him jump but he stops in his tracks when he gets just within earshot and hears Eddie speak animatedly into his phone.

“No, Myra,” he’s saying resolutely, “I won’t change my mind, it’s over.”

Richie is about to make a hasty retreat but Eddie turns before he can and spots him, dropping the hand he has on his forehead and freezing mid-sentence with a guilty look on his face.

“I need to go. Please, stop calling me.” Eddie cuts the conversation short and ends the call without waiting for an answer.

“Sorry, I-” Richie stutters, “I didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s fine,” Eddie reassures him but his grip is tight around his phone and his frown doesn’t seem like it will abate soon.

Richie opens his mouth a couple of time, unsure of what to say, and finally goes with “I was just going to-”

“I’m getting a divorce,” Eddie blurts, cutting him off, “I told her when we were still in Derry and I’ve been talking to a lawyer while I was in L.A.”

Richie bites his lip and sighs. “I kinda figured,” he says with a small grimace.

Eddie straightens up, surprised. “How-,” he starts to ask but seems to change his mind. “Nevermind, it’s cool. Please don’t tell the others yet?” he pleads.

“I won’t,” Richie replies immediately, “but I think you should. If no one else, Beverly will understand.”

Eddie seems to think about it for a second and then nods, forcing out a small smile. "I will," he says, "soon. It's just that I haven't found the right moment you know, and it's- it's…" he trails off with a shrug. 

Richie waits for Eddie to continue and when he doesn't, he tries to remember what Beverly told Eddie the week before, about finding happiness and how they would never begrudge him for it. It's moments like this that really make him wonder who ever thought he should get paid to say things. 

"No one will judge you, Eds," he says. Eddie's smile drops but he doesn't interrupt Richie when he continues. "We want you to be happy," Richie pauses and swallows down the knot of anxiety in his throat before finishing, " _I_ want you to be happy."

Eddie searches his eyes and Richie has no idea what he's looking for but he squares his shoulders and makes himself look back because he needs Eddie to believe him, even though he'd do anything to escape his scrutiny. 

"Thanks, Rich," Eddie says after what feels like an eternity and Richie's shoulders slump as he nods and forces out a reassuring smile.

Eddie clears his throat and finally looks away. “Weren’t you gonna go get food with the others?” he changes the subject. 

“Yeah. I forgot my phone, so I was gonna grab it and go,” Richie explains, gesturing to Stan's room, “but I can stay if you want me to.”

“I- yeah, I-” Eddie hesitates, “Yeah.” He finally nods, so Richie pushes open the door and steps aside to let Eddie in first. Inside, Mike and Stan are sitting close, talking with smiles on their faces, but when Richie looks at them more closely, they’re both a little teary-eyed and Stan has a hand on one of Mike’s forearms, his thumb rubbing small circles in the fabric of his shirt.

“What are we crying about?” Richie breaks their little bubble, “Are you sad thinking about all the grandmas whose hearts you’re gonna break in Florida, Mike? Because I understand, the thought of all those poor old ladies trying to get a piece of that as a last wish and failing is heartbreaking to me too," he jokes, and rubs an imaginary tear away from the corner of his eye. 

Mike laughs and Eddie elbows Richie in the side, hard. "Why are you so gross, Richie?“

“I don't know," Richie squeaks out, rubbing at the spot where Eddie just hit him, "but it didn't seem to matter all that much to your mom."

"Oh, it definitely did," Eddie contradicts him. 

"You guys are just as exhausting as before," Stan comments, looking between the two of them. Then, he turns to Mike and asks, "Have they been this way the entire time they've remembered each other?" 

Mike chuckles. "You have no idea," he replies with a dramatic roll of his eyes. 

“Hey!” Richie protests over Mike’s answer, faking outrage.

"My little hospital trip doesn't seem all that bad now that I remember how insufferable you two are together," Stan jokes. It doesn't land quite as well as Stan hoped. Richie is the only one who laughs while Eddie and Mike's smiles verge slightly toward winces.

"Yeah, this definitely isn't the first time you've said you'd rather kill yourself than spend one more minute in the same room as Eddie and me," Richie shoots back, startling a laugh out of Stan and making Eddie bury his face in his hand exasperatedly. "Pretty sure I should be the one apologizing and not you, Mike," Richie continues, clapping a hand on Mike's back whose laugh finally dissolves the remaining tension in his shoulders.

The hours seem to go by in minutes when the others get back bearing lunch. Richie has to physically fight Stan from swiping pieces of his burrito as he eats, but he doesn’t try all that hard, happy to let Stan have something that tastes better than bland hospital food. They don’t get bored, they’re never bored sharing space and laughs, and soon the light outside Stan’s hospital room turns softer and warmer, the conversation mellowing too when Stan struggles to keep his eyes open as the day goes by.

Richie wishes he’d seen disaster coming when between one conversation and the next, the subject changes and becomes serious as Stan tries to explain what happened after he lost consciousness following Mike’s call.

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” Stan says with his eyes fixed on his bedspread and hands folded over each other, a gesture that Richie recognises from when they were kids as Stan trying to comfort himself. He used to do it a lot back then, even more after what happened in the sewers, and Richie felt just as guilty about it then as he does now. “I felt like I had no other choice, something in me was sure that if I’d gone with you I would have been a liability.” 

He pauses and Richie is desperate to make a joke, to trample all over this conversation that he’s not sure he’ll ever be willing to have, but even he can tell that for once, the others wouldn’t appreciate it, that it is something that can’t be left unresolved.

“But how did you know you actually died?” Ben asks, “People see weird things when they almost die all the time, right?” he looks at the others for confirmation and Bill seems to agree.

“I just...” Stan hesitates, “I saw something.”

“You saw It?” Beverly asks, slightly alarmed, “You saw It before you died?”

“No,” Stan shakes his head, “It wasn’t It, it was something else. This will sound weird,” he chuckles slightly, “But I saw a huge, massive t-”

“Turtle,” Richie finishes for him, it’s not a question. He bites his tongue harshly and immediately regrets saying anything, already knowing that there is no way he’ll be able to lie his way out of this one. He’s preemptively exhausted by the thought of lying anyway, and something tells him that the longer he keeps it hidden, the worse of a reaction he’ll get when the truth finally comes out.

Stan snaps to him immediately, incredulous, and the others turn to look at him too. “How did you know?” he asks.

Richie sighs and scrubs a hand over his eyes, pushing his glasses askew and preparing himself to come clean about what happened when he came out of the deadlights. “I saw it, too,” he explains on an exhale, “The turtle, I met it too. Maturin.”

“When?” Stan asks again.

“In the deadlights?” Beverly says at the same time.

Richie looks at her and shakes his head. “No,” he replies, “after that. I saw it for an entire week, for two weeks actually.” The others look at him with confused expressions.

“Richie,” Eddie interjects, speaking patiently enough that it makes Richie feel at the same time like the most condescended person and the hugest asshole in the world, “we haven’t been out of Derry more than three days.”

“Listen, I know,” Richie insists, “That’s because I’ve lived this week three times. Well, two,” he corrects himself, “this is the third time.”

“That d-d-doesn’t make any sense,” Bill says. Mike is strangely silent next to him and he regards Richie with a contemplative look. Richie doesn’t like it one bit.

“What happened exactly,” Mike finally speaks, “when you saw the turtle the first time?” And there it is, the question Richie was trying so hard to dodge.

He sighs again, grimaces and rubs his neck as an excuse to lower his head and not look at them when they hear what he says next. “Eddie died,” he mumbles, half-hoping that they won’t hear him but at the same time not really wanting to have to repeat himself.

“What?!” Eddie huffs, and he sounds affronted rather than alarmed.

Richie doesn’t respond, prefers to keep looking at the floor instead, withering under Eddie’s searching look that he can feel on himself.

“I read about Maturin,” Mike says in Richie’s place, and Richie finally looks up, surprised. “He was mentioned in passing, I couldn’t find a lot about him aside from some lore that said he’s been alive at least as long as It if not more,” Mike explains, “Some referred to them as brothers, but I got the impression that they were enemies. I tried to look into him more, I thought he might help us fight It, but I just couldn’t find enough material.”

“And this b-b-being,” Bill starts, incredulity still evident in his voice, “is a t-turtle?”

“Yes,” Stan and Richie say at the same time while Mike nods.

“It asked me to choose,” Stan continues, “It asked me where I would go and I chose to come back.”

Richie sees Mike stare intently at Stan as the others look between one another and nobody says a word. He doesn’t have the courage to see the expression on Eddie’s face, so he concentrates on Stan too.

“So he’s good?” Ben breaks the silence. “I mean, he brought you back, and Eddie too.” He looks at Richie for confirmation who nods. “So he’s not something we should be worrying about, right?”

"Yes," Richie replies without hesitation and he doesn't know how he knows but he's certain of it.

"From what I found, he seemed to balance It out," Mike confirms. "So I don't think he means ill. Could that be why he brought you and Eddie back?" he asks Richie and Stan. 

Stan shrugs slightly, unsure of the answer and Richie bites his lip, a guilty look on his face that Beverly immediately picks up on. 

"Richie?" she calls, "What aren’t you telling us?" 

"It didn't-," Richie starts to answer and stops with a sigh. "It didn't bring Eddie back," he tries again, "I mean, it did, but not for free."

“What does that mean?” Eddie asks without missing a beat. His voice is hard and when Richie makes himself look at him, his shoulders are drawn up and tense. “What did he want from you?”

Richie pushes his hands into his jacket pockets and presses his elbows against his sides, wishing it was enough to make him shrink and disappear from the situation. “I said I’ve been through this week three times,” he repeats, stalling on saying outright what happened, sure that he’s seconds away from getting screamed at by more or less everyone else in the room. “It brought you back on the second week, and took me instead.” He almost whispers the last part and closes his eyes with a wince, already bracing for the reaction.

It comes exactly as Richie anticipated. All at once, everyone is speaking all over each other. Richie can make out Bill’s loud “What the h-h-hell were you thinking?!” and Beverly’s “Jesus fucking Christ, Richie,” while Ben and Mike’s gentler responses get lost in the noise. The only other ones not speaking aside from him are Stan and Eddie.

The former is watching him with a pensive look like he’s trying to figure out a particularly tricky riddle while Eddie is completely still, standing in the middle of the mess with his fists balled-up tight and the deepest frown Richie has ever seen on his face.

The others fall abruptly silent when Stan speaks.

“How are you here then?” he asks, looking directly into Richie’s face. “If it took you in exchange for Eddie, how are you still alive?”

“I don’t know,” Richie replies truthfully. “It gave me another chance, I guess, but I don’t know why.”

Mike covers his mouth with a hand and frowns to himself. “Stan,” he finally says, “What did he take from you?”

Stan shakes his head, hesitating. “I can’t be completely sure,” he begins, “but I think it took my fear.” He moves his mouth a couple more times, trying to explain what he means but failing, then adds, “I wasn’t thinking straight, as I said, but then it asked me what I would give up and when I realised I wasn’t scared of coming back anymore it just-” he pauses and shrugs “-let me come back.”

Bill and Mike exchange a thoughtful look. Richie looks between them and thinks back to the ritual that didn’t work.

“So you just,” Eddie suddenly speaks, for the first time since Richie’s revelation. He’s shaking slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Richie’s watching him closely enough to notice anyway. “You just decided that I was more important than you?”

Richie winces and swallows. He bites his tongue and doesn’t respond because denying it would be an obvious enough lie that everyone in a ten-mile radius would be able to tell. He doesn’t have to say anything anyway, because Eddie continues, his anger more and more evident in his voice.

“I can’t believe- So fucking irresponsible-” his sentences keep breaking off like he’s not sure where to start, like there are so many things making him furious at the same time and intensity that he can’t choose where to begin. “You didn’t know what would happen!” he finally settles on, voice rising with every word, “You risked us failing, you risked Stan’s fucking life,-” he gestures to him on the bed “-you gave your own for what fucking reason?!?”

Richie gapes, frozen to the spot. He can’t make his throat work and his mind is blank. He knows why he made the choice, Eddie’s death a weight heavy enough on him to still feel it on his shoulders even after it disappeared, but he doesn’t know how to explain himself without revealing too much, and Richie hadn’t thought about what Eddie’s saying anyway, too selfish to consider what his actions might have done to the others, to Stan. Most of all, he knows in some deep part of himself that even if he had thought about it then, it wouldn’t have changed anything, Richie would have done the same.

Bill takes a slow step toward Eddie who’s leaning into Richie’s space with his jaw set in fury, and lifts his hands like he wants to touch him, try to placate him somehow. Eddie keeps looking at Richie, waiting for anything, an answer, a justification, and when it doesn’t come he shakes Bill off before he can touch him and stands back, looking away.

Richie deflates.

“I can’t fucking look at you right now,” Eddie hisses out. He’s not looking at Richie anymore but it’s clear he’s talking to him. He pats his pockets hastily to make sure he isn’t leaving anything behind and says, “I need some air. I need- I’m sorry, Stan,” his voice softens just for a second, “I need to go.” And then he turns around and leaves.

The sound of the door slamming behind Eddie resounds into Richie's chest like a heavy drumming pain. He pushes his glasses high on his head and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes until the darkness behind his eyelids flickers. 

"I need to go after him," he stammers out, pulling the glasses back over his eyes and taking a hasty step to the door. Beverly stops him with a hand on his forearm and he turns to look at her face, set heavy with determination. 

"Give him some space," she tells him and maintains his gaze. 

Richie looks between her eyes feeling lost, but they are kind and patient and it makes his heart falter. 

"Come on, you need to sit down," she says then, and pulls on his arm to manoeuvre him to the foot of Stan's bed who pulls up his knees to make space for him. 

Richie lets Beverly push him down to sit and looks around at the others, who are all looking back at him. 

"You did something monumentally stupid, Richie," Beverly says. She's not shouting, but the previous gentleness in her voice has an angry edge to it now. "Even for you." 

Richie snorts, can't help it bubbling out of him, but it’s anything but happy. "Sorry," he mumbles and sobers up. "I- I know," he says, and hangs his head, "but I couldn't- I _had_ to bring him back." He looks at each one of them and prays that they understand. 

"W-wuh-we get it, Rich," Bill says patiently, and Ben puts a hand on Richie's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. 

Beverly sighs deeply, crossing her arms. "Of course we understand," she starts, "but Eddie's right. It was reckless and I don't think I've ever been this angry at you before." 

Richie nods and looks at his hands in his lap. He can't blame them. He's sure that if any of them were in his place, he'd be pretty bummed out about the whole ordeal too. It would probably be easier if he could tell them he wouldn't do it again, would think about it more rationally and choose the smartest option instead of the one where he doesn't know if dying in Eddie's place means that It survives and Stan doesn't make it back, but it would be a lie too. He would always take that risk for Eddie. 

"Is this how you knew that Stan was alive and how to kill It?" Mike asks. He doesn't seem as angry as the others and Richie guesses his curiosity to know exactly what happened is still winning out at the moment. 

"You knew I was alive?" Stan interjects, surprised. 

"Yeah." Richie nods. "I've already been here twice." 

Richie recounts the last two weeks to them and tells them about the void and the way Maturin talked to him and mostly didn’t answer whenever Richie asked it for an explanation. He tries to answer their questions now, but the entire encounter was just as confusing to him then as it is to the others now and by the time he’s done explaining - he tries to carefully gloss over anything that has to do with his feelings for Eddie, but he suspects the others might be able to tell anyway - and answering every question they can possibly think of, two more hours have passed and even Patricia has come back to the hospital, ready to take her place for the night.

They say goodbye to Stan, promising to be back the next day like it wasn't already obvious they would, and Richie follows them on their walk to the hotel a few steps behind, trying to wrap his head around everything that happened and thinking of what he's gonna tell Eddie the next time he sees him. 

"I really need a drink," Bill announces from his place ahead of the group. Richie couldn’t agree more. 

He watches as Bill looks up at the sky and stretches his arms above his head, making something in his back crack loudly, and listens only marginally as the others make plans to reconvene at the hotel's bar after a shower and Ben takes it upon himself to text Eddie about it. 

As they walk, Mike slows his steps until he's lagging behind with Richie and nudges his shoulder against his with a small smile that Richie forces himself to reciprocate, albeit unconvincingly. 

“There were a good few years,” Mike starts without preamble, “when I was sure I would never see you guys again.”

Richie lifts his eyes and looks at the profile of Mike’s face, a fierce sadness immediately stinging in his throat. Mike is looking ahead, his steps are confident on the pavement and the only emotion on his face is the small distant smile curving his lips as he remembers the days he was alone.

“None of you ever called again, not even at the start, and after a while, I stopped waiting for you to,” he explains, shrugging slightly. “It felt like I’d lost something in me that I could never get back, not just emotionally,” he pauses, “but physically. Something so vital that I couldn’t breathe right anymore. I would have done anything.” He looks back at Richie, who can’t take his eyes away from him, sure that he’s only moments away from breaking down then and there, in the middle of the road, from how guilty he feels.

“I really would have done anything, Richie,” Mike repeats, “If there was even a sliver of a chance to get you guys back.”

Richie swallows hard, it goes down painfully in his throat and he has to look away, can’t keep his head up under the weight of knowing exactly what Mike is saying. He doesn’t reply, and Mike turns away, back to the street in front of them and the others walking ahead without a clue.

"I know it's not the same." Mike shrugs again and Richie wants to ask how he knows, what gave him away, but Mike continues, “I knew you were all okay, you were alive and doing good for yourselves. It was selfish. It was selfish to the point of being reckless, but I can’t blame you.”

Richie wants to disagree, wants to tell him he’s wrong, that Eddie is right. But he can’t get his mouth to work, so uncharacteristic for him, and Mike keeps talking.

“I don’t know if I’d think the same if you hadn’t succeeded, Richie-” Mike shakes his head, “-but I’m glad you did what you did because we’re all here, and I think the others are too.”

Mike stops abruptly, and Richie halts too, realising they’re in front of the hotel entrance. He can see the others already inside through the sleek glass doors.

Richie swallows again and finally finds his words. “I’m sorry, Mike,” he says, voice shaky.

Mike touches his shoulder gently, squeezing once, and just smiles before he goes through the door and keeps it open behind him for Richie.

Bill, Beverly and Ben are waiting for them at the elevator, talking among themselves. 

“Eddie says he’ll meet us at the bar,” Ben says when Mike and Richie reach them, reading the text on his phone. “Is 9:30 okay?” he asks and looks at them for confirmation.

“Sounds g-good,” Bill says, and Mike nods.

“Sure,” Richie replies. 

He and Bill are the last ones to get out of the lift. The climb to their floor is slow and quiet. Richie jumps when the elevator doors slide open with a ding, breaking the swirl of thoughts circling in his head, and stares at the carpeted corridor that leads to their rooms with what he can only imagine is a lost expression. Bill seems to notice too, because he touches the small of Richie’s back and nudges him ahead gently.

“Rich,” he says, “W-we’re here.”

When Richie looks at him, Bill’s watching him with wide eyes and concern written all over his face. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Richie shakes himself and forces out a smile. “Sorry. Yeah, yeah,” he replies, “all good Big Bill.”

Bill doesn’t seem convinced, but he doesn’t prod further, so Richie steps out and starts walking to his door, throwing behind a quick “See you later” to Bill when he passes his room.

Richie gives himself exactly thirty seconds to dwell, sitting down at the foot of his hotel bed and putting his head in his hands with a deep sigh, before he grabs a change of clothes and makes straight for the shower to wash off the sterile hospital smell from his body, hoping the water will help clear his head.

There’s still more than half an hour left before he’s supposed to meet the others at the bar when Richie makes his way downstairs, but his room is starting to feel a little claustrophobic after having paced its length more times than he can count. He can feel himself fidget almost out of his skin, the same haste that would get a hold of him when he was a kid and felt that there was just not enough time to do everything he wanted to, especially in the last days of summer. It used to happen to Richie often back then, eventually settling down without Richie noticing after he left Derry and he has to wonder if it was because he didn’t have people he thought he was running out of time to spend with anymore, but he knows the restlessness he’s feeling now is the same, if for different reasons.

He walks to the sitting area a few ways away from the reception, a small square of armchairs and sofas separated from the rest of the lobby by tall plants and heavy wooden screens with paper panels painted in flowery patterns. He sits down and peers at the stretch of road outside with his foot tapping wildly against the floor, watching the sky go dark and the people hurry home.

His phone vibrates with a new message in his pant pocket and Richie looks away from the window to check it out, but when he lifts his eyes, he sees Eddie walking toward him and promptly forgets his phone ever buzzed at all.

Eddie’s face is set with determination, a frown that Richie has seen before but fears now, and he doesn’t know what to say when Eddie takes a seat on the edge of the sofa in front of him and leans on his knees without looking at Richie’s face, preferring to stare at the floor instead.

Eddie has changed out of the hoodie he’d been wearing, has put on a sweater in its place Richie notes and doesn’t realise he’s been holding his breath until Eddie looks up at him and then he stops breathing at all, expecting more rage to come his way and only thinking that he kind of deserves it.

But Eddie deflates instead, all that’s left of his frown the thin lines that Richie thinks have been etched into his forehead since he was eleven, and lets out a slow and airy sigh.

“You do realise,” Eddie starts, his voice much calmer than Richie had been expecting, “that was probably the stupidest fucking thing you've ever done in your life, right, Richie?" 

Richie huffs out a surprised breath, the nerves almost turning into a laugh. "Whoa, Eds, are you sure that’s accurate? You know first-hand I’ve done a lot of stupid shit," he tries to joke. Eddie shoots him an unimpressed look in response and Richie's disingenuous smile falls with a sigh of his own, shoulders slumping dejectedly.

“You know what the worst part is?” Eddie asks without really expecting an answer. So Richie doesn’t give him one, just keeps looking at Eddie and waits for him to continue. “It would be so much easier for me if I could say that I don't get it,” he says, “I do get it, and I would have probably done the same, but it was still irresponsible.”

“I know. And I’m sorry,” Richie replies. “although not in the way you want me to be, and not for the right reasons,” he continues, “I didn’t hesitate for even a moment when Maturin gave me the chance and I wouldn’t now either.”

A muscle in Eddie’s jaw jumps at Richie’s words and he doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking between Richie’s eyes. 

Richie wants to cower, wishes he could say “That’s enough honesty for me. Thank you so much for the opportunity but just call me back when you need shitty jokes and pathetic childhood feelings that any other normal adult would have gotten over by now,” and run back to his room. He doesn’t, he stays there, rooted to the seat with his shoulders hitched up to his ears.

"I knew something wasn’t right,” Eddie says, “The way you knew about Stan, and how you weren’t surprised by Beverly and Ben getting together and Mike going with them. I just didn’t know how you could know all of that, because you said you didn’t remember the deadlights and honestly, a magic turtle wasn’t even a possibility I considered.” He shakes his head and widens his eyes in disbelief. “I really didn’t think our life could get any weirder after an alien murder clown from space.”

Richie lets out an amused breath and looks at his hands on his knees. “I can’t even make a joke about it, it already sounds ridiculous on its own,” he says with a tentative smile and looks at Eddie above the rim on his glasses. Eddie’s smile twitches like he’s trying really hard not to show the amusement, and he doesn’t respond.

A few moments of silence pass and then, “No more lies, Richie, please," Eddie says finally and Richie crumbles a little, because Eddie never says please, not to him, not when they were kids and never should he now. Eddie has never needed to plead with Richie for anything, because Richie was always willing to give Eddie what he asked for when it mattered, and he always knew instinctively when it did. "What happened?" Eddie demands, and it's so harsh it's barely a question.

Richie sighs and hangs his head, bringing a hand to scrub at his forehead. There's no getting out of this one anymore. 

"It stabbed through your torso," he explains with his eyes closed, the image seared into his eyelids. "You were kneeling over me after I came out of the deadlights and It took advantage of your distraction and fucking impaled you," he continues, "and then It threw you across the air and you landed in some kind of side cave or something." Richie swallows thickly, willing the knot in his throat to just go away, but it doesn't. 

"And that's when I died?" Eddie asks, voice unwavering. When Richie opens his eyes, Eddie's expression is stoic and calm and Richie doesn't get it. 

He shakes his head. "No," he replies, "You were still alive then, we pulled you out of that crevice and then the others went for It and then I had to leave too, to go help them." The guilt stings again, fresh like it just happened and Richie almost doesn't want to say the rest, but he has to, it's the only way for Eddie to understand. "When I got back to you, you were already gone," he swallows thickly, "I tried to pull you out, Eds, I swear I-" his voice shakes, "I shouldn't have let them drag me away, I should have- I should-" _I should have died there with you_ , Richie doesn’t say. He grits his teeth instead and tries uselessly to keep his tears in. He wheezes, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps, and flinches when he feels the unexpected touch of Eddie's hand on his knee.

He concentrates on the heat of Eddie's palm through his jeans and his breathing calms slightly, but it takes him a couple of minutes before the tears subside.

He tries to read Eddie’s pinched expression and thinks he finds pain there, regret. Any anger that Eddie could have been holding onto has seeped out of him while Richie spoke and now he only seems worried and speechless.

"You tried to tell me something," Richie continues when he finally stops crying, "You said 'You know, I…' and nothing else. What were you trying to say, Eds? What was it?" Richie searches into Eddie's eyes for the answer. 

Eddie seems confused at first, and it makes sense. He didn't die, he didn't go through what Richie is talking about, it's only natural that he wouldn't know what he was going to say. But then he drops his hand from Richie's leg and looks away almost ashamed, and Richie can tell that he knows what he would have said, what Eddie wanted Richie to hear in his other life.

“I-I don’t know,” Eddie says, eyes planted on the hands in his own lap, his fingers playing with a ring that isn’t there anymore. “I- I don’t-” He shrugs and closes his eyes, and the next time he opens them his face is steely and Richie can’t find the answer there when he looks for it.

“We left Derry and I went home after that. I-” _I was a mess_ , is the truth Richie can’t expose, can’t tell Eddie that he spent a week feeling like a ghost, knowing that all he wanted to do was share that grave with him. Instead, Richie explains, “I started having these weird dreams. That’s when I saw the turtle the first time, it was there when I fell asleep.” _You were there too_ , he doesn’t say, instead, he continues, “After a week, it told me I had to go back and I did.” He swallows hard, preparing himself for what comes next and winces, already knowing that Eddie is not going to take the next part well. “I woke up in the cave, and you were above me,” he recounts, “I knew what was going to happen and that I had to give the turtle something, my life for yours, so I pushed you out of the way and It got me instead.”

Eddie takes a sharp breath but doesn’t interrupt him, so Richie continues.

“I was dead for a week after that.” He pauses and looks at the floor, unsure of how much he can say. He skims through his memories and tries to select just enough that he doesn’t lie but doesn’t give himself away either. “I was dead,” he settles on, “but I was kind of there too.”

Eddie frowns and sits back, crossing one of his arms across his chest and bringing a hand to his mouth, rubbing it pensively.

“I gotta say,” Richie smiles, hollow and without mirth, “not a big fan of getting to see what happens after you die.”

Eddie curses out a terse “God,” and rubs his forehead with a frustrated sigh. He unfolds his arms, hands falling to the cushion next to his thighs, and drops his head to the back of the couch. Then he straightens up and asks, “And then what happened?”

“And then,” Richie starts with a nod, “the turtle asked me if I wanted to go back again and what I would give to do so.” Eddie looks at him expectantly. “I said yes,” Richie continues. “Obviously,” he adds with a shrug.

“What did he take?” Eddie asks without missing a beat.

Richie thinks about it for a second and shakes his head. “I- I don’t know.” It’s not a lie, Richie really isn’t sure what the turtle took from him. He could feel himself let go of the fear, knowing what he had to do as soon as he was back in It’s lair, but he’s still afraid now, not of the clown but of what he feels for Eddie, of coming out, of what he wants for the future. He’s terrified he won’t get any of that and he’s scared by the prospect of telling Eddie the truth and getting to find out that all his fears were right. So he really doesn’t know what Maturin took, because if he’s still so afraid, how can it have taken his fear?

Eddie doesn’t say anything for a while, just keeps searching Richie’s eyes until he seems to believe his words. “And what about Stan?” he asks then, “Did you meet him? Did we?”

Richie nods. “Yeah,” he says with a small smile, “That was the good part.” He relaxes back into the sofa and scratches idly at the stubble on his jaw, “The days in-between were pretty much the same,” he explains, “the only part that changed was, uhm, you know...” He grits his teeth and mimes the action of getting stabbed instead of saying it out loud.

Eddie scrunches his nose and shoots him a judgemental look that makes Richie want to laugh.

A few seconds of silence pass and Richie thinks that’s the end of that conversation. He knows it’ll come up again, but maybe they can be okay for now and Richie can pretend that everything’s fine, pretend that knowing he would throw his whole life away if Eddie needed him to because that’s how much he thinks he’s worth is a normal thing normal people experience. 

But then Eddie speaks again. “It hasn’t been a week yet, right?” he asks, “How do you know you won’t get sent back again this time?”

Richie thinks about it for a moment and he knows he doesn’t have the absolute certainty that it won’t happen, but he’s not worried either. “I don’t,” he replies mildly, “but it hasn’t come back. I haven’t seen Maturin this time.”

Eddie doesn’t seem convinced, but he must find Richie’s confidence reassuring enough because he doesn’t insist. He slumps against the cushions with a sigh and looks at the watch on his wrist instead. “We should probably get going,” he says and hoists himself to his feet. “We’re fifteen minutes late.”

He extends a waiting hand to Richie then, and it’s as much to help him get up as it is a peace offering. Richie looks at it and then at Eddie’s face and feels the weight of his gesture even before he takes it. He stands up and squeezes once, hoping that Eddie can feel his gratefulness and his apology, and everything he can never say, before he lets go.

They make their way to the bar walking side by side and Eddie was right, the others are already waiting for them at the big table in the corner that they’ve been occupying in every version of the week. They’re talking and laughing loudly even though they have yet to order anything to drink and almost don’t notice Eddie and Richie making their way to them, aside from Beverly.

She turns to Richie as he sits down and sends him a questioning look that Richie returns with a wink and a smile and then goes back to whatever it is she was talking about with Mike before they arrived.

The more Richie drinks, the easier it is to forget the weight of his conversation with Eddie and all the things that have still been left unsaid. But it doesn’t matter there, laughing and joking with the others, not when he can see Eddie let himself go too, his anger and concern relaxed out of his shoulders with each of the cocktails he swallows.

They’re all well past tipsy and on their steady way to drunk when Eddie clears his throat in the middle of one of Richie’s lower-hanging jokes and the words die on his mouth, the others around the table falling silent too.

“I need to tell you guys something,” Eddie begins. The grip around his more than half-empty glass is tight and nervous, and Richie wants to reach out and gently pry his fingers away. “I’m getting a divorce.”

He glances briefly to Richie after saying the words and Richie doesn’t have to force the smile he gives him in reply, just lifts his left arm and drapes it around Eddie’s shoulders, dragging him in for an awkward half-hug against his side. “Back in the market, ba-bey!” Richie shouts cheerfully.

Eddie laughs and finally lets go of his glass, elbowing Richie far more gently than true irritation would grant and shushing him with a quick look around at the tables from which some of the other patrons are shooting irritated looks at their unruliness.

“Oh, Eddie,” Beverly says with a smile, leaning across Ben to squeeze Eddie’s arm reassuringly, “congratulations.”

The others echo Beverly’s sentiment in a way or another and Richie can see Eddie’s eyes glaze over through his unbidden smile with happy tears. Richie doesn’t make a joke about it, doesn’t bring it up at all, but squeezes Eddie’s shoulder ever tighter and doesn’t let him go for a few long minutes.

“I don’t mean to steal your thunder, Spaghetti,” Richie says after they’ve settled down again and leans back into his chair, taking his arm away from Eddie’s shoulders and continuing, “but I have an announcement too.”

He looks around the table, glancing to each of the Losers’ expectant faces and fixing his eyes to his hands on the tabletop before they pass over Eddie, and takes a deep breath, bracing himself for his next words. “Here we go,” he mutters to himself and then he says: "I'm gay.”

Beverly is on him before he can even gather the courage to look up, throwing herself over the round table and half-climbing it on one knee so she can pull Richie in a tight hug that knocks his breath from his chest. He laughs on a breathy “Oof” and hugs her back just as tightly, taking in the zesty scent of her fiery hair, still so comforting even after so many years.

He feels Bill’s hand against his back as Beverly keeps hugging him. “Thanks for telling us, Rich,” he says kindly, and doesn’t stutter.

Ben reaches over the empty seat they left for Stan and over Eddie and squeezes his other shoulder. Richie sees him smile over the top of Beverly’s head and when she finally lets him go, he also sees Mike lift his glass to Richie and nod. He doesn’t say anything, only looks at Richie intently with a sincere smile that Richie feels is a bit too knowing.

All Richie wanted the first time he did this was to see Eddie's reaction, know that it wouldn't change anything between them. But now that Eddie is alive and sitting right next to him, Richie can't make himself look. He swallows down the lump in his throat and fixes his gaze to the table again instead: if he doesn't look at any of them, no one will be able to see that the only one he can't actually look at is Eddie.

It doesn’t deter Eddie, though, who splays a careful hand over Richie’s knee behind the cover of the table, his touch feather-light. Richie’s curiosity wins against his fear and he lifts his eyes to look at Eddie’s face. What he finds there, in the pool of his sweet doe-eyes is comfort and an unexpected affection that Richie can’t explain but knows it feels like home.

Eddie doesn’t have to say anything for Richie’s concern to dissipate and Richie can feel words he’s been keeping at bay prickle at the tip of his tongue, but before he speaks them, Bill proposes a toast and it’s enough to break whatever glass-fragile moment had been going on and Richie suddenly feels very relieved that he didn’t say anything, after all, just swallows down the words and lets them scratch their way down the pit of his stomach like stubborn pebbles.

They stay at the bar for another hour and a couple more drinks, and after Richie and Eddie say goodnight to Bill and keep walking the small distance to their own rooms, Eddie squeezes Richie into an unprompted hug and doesn’t explain himself. Just says, “Sleep well, Richie,” and closes the door gently behind him with a muted click before Richie has a chance to frown his flabbergasted face away.

That night, when he falls asleep, Richie hears Maturin's voice. It resounds into his ribcage with the unanswered question one more time, "What will you give?" And Richie wakes up feeling afraid.

As far as wakings go, Richie's had better. That isn’t to say he hasn’t had worse, he’s had much, much worse too. Even knowing that, though, the feeling of apprehension in the pit of his stomach isn’t pleasant by any meaning of the word, and the pounding headache pressing at his temples doesn’t help matters one bit. 

It’s both things that wake Richie far earlier than he would like after a night of cheerful drinking. His body is exhausted, his mind is still reeling from the frankly excessive amount of sentimental talks of the previous day, and his alcoholic metabolism is a traitorous little asshole that Richie believes he should have gotten more time to enjoy seen as he is only now, after 27 years, drinking with people he actively enjoys the company of.

Richie looks at the ceiling above his hotel bed with a dull ache in the corner of his eyes and a mouthful of cotton and sighs, slowly and carefully hoisting himself into a sitting position after counting the beginnings of a humidity problem in at least five different spots above him.

He steps into the adjacent bathroom with the single-mindedness of someone who hasn’t had water in a week, and guzzles directly from the tap in the hope that it’ll be the first step to shedding the stubborn migraine that will probably follow him for at least half the day. Then he strips out of the few items of clothing he's still wearing from the night before and gets into the shower and under the stream without waiting for it to even begin to warm up but still careful not to soak the three-day-old bandage on his back already peeling at the corners.

By the time he’s stepping out of his room and into the corridor, he almost feels like a human being again.

He starts making his way to the elevator when a door a few feet ahead opens, Eddie emerging from it. He hasn’t noticed Richie yet, so Richie walks closer, stops just steps away and watches Eddie’s preoccupied expression as he turns the key into the lock to close it. 

“Good morning, Mister Spaghetti,” he greets Eddie in his worst imitation of a haughty butler yet, making him jump out of his thoughts and turn with a start, “I trust the mattress was to your liking, sir?”

“Jesus Christ, Richie,” Eddie responds, sending him a nasty look and pulling out the key before pocketing it. “Mister Spaghetti? Really?” he asks then, “I appreciate the respect but also, fuck you.”

Richie chuckles to himself and peers at Eddie’s face. He looks a little worse for wear but it’s nothing compared to how Richie feels and undoubtedly looks. Richie’s pretty sure they all went head to head in the drinks department the night before and they’re the same age so there is no fair reason for Eddie to look this good while sporting a hangover.

“How the fuck are you alive right now, Eds?” He sighs in frustration, resuming his walk along the corridor. “We drank like an entire liquor store and you look like you’re just about ready to bust out a pair of sinfully short shorts and run a marathon.”

Eddie huffs out what Richie is almost certain is a reluctant laugh, but when Richie looks at him he’s already managed to rein it in, and says “That’s because I actually did go on a run this morning.”

Richie stops without warning and waits for Eddie to look back at him. He stares straight into his eyes when Eddie does and says, “You’re insane,” and falls back into step with Eddie, who rolls his eyes in reply. Richie brings his hands behind his head and casually begins, “Your mom might not have been the best mother-”

“ _Might?!?_ ” Eddie scoffs.

“-but all that healthy living bullshit must have paid off in the end, huh?” he presses on without acknowledging the interruption.

Eddie pretends to think about it for a second and then says, deadpan, “Fuck no.” Richie snorts and Eddie continues. “Her _‘healthy living’_ -” Eddie echoes sarcastically, complete with air-quotes, “-was all bullshit and there is _no way_ she would have ever let me go on runs through Central Park alone if she’d known.”

Richie lifts his eyebrows and presses his lips in a _fair enough_ expression. “If going on runs after a night of drinking at 40 years old is the norm, then where the fuck does that leave _me_?”

“I don’t know, Rich,” Eddie replies and presses the elevator button in front of them, “Maybe you could try eating a vegetable every two or three months and see where that takes you?”

The doors slide open almost immediately and Richie and Eddie get in, bickering all the way down and along the way to the hospital. They stop at the vegan bakery Eddie found the last time he picked up breakfast to bring to Stan, and Richie complains the whole time. It’s mostly for show, though, because Richie doesn’t care all that much what they end up eating, but it feels comfortingly familiar and he's afraid that if he stops, the easy rhythm they have going will break and then he’ll have to deal with the things he’s still left unsaid. 

Stan is alone when Richie and Eddie finally make it to the hospital, a little later than the other times, and tells them that Patricia just left when Richie asks about his “better half”.

Eddie gives Stan the paper bag with the croissants they bought and Richie lets him take the first coffee before he passes one to Eddie and disposes of the foldable carry-on tray they came in after taking his own.

Intellectually, Richie knows that the sad, brown, vegan croissant in his hands can’t possibly be as good as it tastes, but it’s enough for his hangover body to feel like the best thing he’s ever eaten. When he looks at Eddie, he seems to be of the same opinion. _Ha_ , so much for keeping fit and running every day, Richie knew he couldn’t be as unaffected as he seemed.

“You guys look like you need at least three more days of sleep,” Stan says, sipping his coffee. “Actually you look fine, Eddie. Richie, you look like shit,” he adds unceremoniously.

“Where would Eddie be without the ugly best friend for comparison,” Richie sighs dramatically, not raising to Stan’s bait, who snorts.

“We got some drinks at the hotel bar,” Eddie speaks over Richie, ignoring his antics, ”Probably overstayed our welcome, too.”

“Hope you guys left a good tip,” Stan jokes.

“Of course, Stanny boy,” Richie replies and sits gingerly on the empty strip of mattress at Stan’s side. “Actually,” he says then, stopping his chewing and eyeing Eddie for a moment before he turns back to Stan, “I guess I should probably get you up to speed.”

Stan frowns and looks between Richie and Eddie, trying to guess where the conversation is going. When Richie speaks again, his eyes settle on him, scrutinizing.

“I, uhm...” Richie begins and immediately pauses, licking his lips, “I’m gay, Stan.”

Stan scoots on the bed close enough so he can reach a hand to Richie's forearm. He grabs at him gently but surely and the weight of his hand is a comforting warmth on Richie's skin that unfurls the last bit of worry from his chest. 

On Richie's other side, Eddie steps closer too, just barely enough so their knees brush against each other. It's such a small gesture, but Richie feels safe there, cocooned between two of the most important people in his life. 

"Thanks for trusting me with this, Rich," Stan says quietly, looking intently into Richie's eyes, "I'm really proud of you."

Richie swallows the heavy lump in his throat and forces his way out of his moved tears with an over-confident smile. Saying it out loud is only slightly easier than the last time he had to do this, the feeling that this time it's gonna stick giving a newfound gravity to finally letting the words out. 

"I know you've been dreaming of this moment, Stan the Man," Richie jokes, "and you might finally have a chance of getting a piece of this." 

Stan is unfazed by Richie's weak attempt at getting out of the emotional moment, though, and just keeps looking into Richie's eyes before he shakes his head and tightens his grip on his forearm one more time as he lets go and sits back so he can get another bite of his pastry. 

Eddie clears his throat in the brief following silence and sways slightly from one foot to the other, crumpling the compostable paper napkin that came with the croissant in his hands. “I have news too,” he says nervously and looks at Richie for just a moment before he continues. Richie shoots him an encouraging smile and a small lift of his eyebrows. “I’m getting a divorce."

“Congratulations?” Stan wavers, smile unsure on his lips.

“Oh, _definitely_ ,” Richie interjects.

“And also,” Eddie continues, and Richie looks at him in surprise before he realises what Eddie is about to say, but Eddie isn’t looking back this time, concentrated on keeping his gaze on the napkin instead, “I think I like guys too.”

Richie reacts just a little too slow, enough that Eddie’s forehead creases with a worried frown, but then he’s up and off the bed in an instant and gathering Eddie in his arms in an over-enthusiastic embrace that he’s pretty sure manages to lift Eddie to his tip-toes. Richie releases him when Eddie slaps at his sides with a choked, “Let me down, you big oaf,” and steps back but keeps his hands on Eddie's shoulders, surveying his flustered and pink-ish expression while Stan laughs in the background.

“Besties!!!” he shrieks excitedly and brings his fists to his chin like a tiny school girl.

Eddie huffs out a shy laugh and goes even pinker, bringing a hand to the back of his neck nervously. It makes something in Richie’s chest squeeze hotly.

“Congratulations,” Stan says from the bed behind them, and for a moment Richie had forgotten he was there. “For both things,” he adds, “and thank you for telling me.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie replies and then to Richie he says, “I was gonna tell you guys yesterday night, but I didn’t want to steal your moment, you know.”

“Aw, Eds...”

“Wait,” Stan interrupts him before Richie can continue, “Does that mean I’m the first one who knows?” Eddie nods and Stan adds with a smug glint in his eyes, “Bill is gonna be so pissed.”

Richie laughs, but then a thought occurs to him. “Eds,” he calls, “did Pennywise ever, uh, you know… taunt you about it?”

“No, not really. Although…” Eddie trails off but doesn't elaborate, he doesn't seem so sure of his answer. Then reluctantly, he adds, “But it might be because I only realised recently.” Richie sees Stan consider Eddie with an inquisitive stare but brushes it away because Eddie continues, “Did he do that to you?”

“Yeah,” Richie breathes out but doesn’t explain. They don’t press him on it and Richie mentally thanks them for it, still not ready to talk about it. 

They stay like that for a few moments, without saying a word, until Richie finally breaks the silence.

"Hey, guys," he says, scratching idly at his nose, "Is it possible that Pennywise might have been a homophobe?"

Stan and Eddie look at each other, then back at Richie. Stan is the first to crack, his laughter coming over him in a sudden and enveloping wave, and he bends into himself as his body shakes and he tries to wheeze air in through the chortling. Eddie isn't far behind, his expression contorts slowly, his shoulders go up and down in gradual chuckles, and his laugh comes intermittently at first, until he can't keep it in anymore and it turns into a snorting guffaw. He brings a hand to his stomach and the other to his face, and laughs freely into his palm, shaking and bending at the knee with the force of it.

Richie looks on as they devolve into giggles, their laughter is the sweetest music he has ever heard.

The others haven’t arrived yet when Eddie excuses himself to take a phone call. His phone rings loudly from his front pocket and he looks at the screen with a frown to check who it is. For a moment, Richie thinks it will be Myra, but then Eddie’s face goes from apprehensive to only mildly annoyed and he doesn’t seem all that bothered about whoever is on the other side even though he still looks like he’d rather not have to answer.

Stan’s attention is on Richie the moment Eddie steps outside.

“Did you know about Eddie?” he asks without any lead-up, “You must have if it’s not the first time he tells me.”

Richie swallows and sighs. “I did,” he replies with a nod that Stan returns only with more of his piercing stare.

“You know,” he says then, “I’m sure the others have already given you enough shit about it as it is, but you really did do something stupid with the turtle.”

Richie laughs and then groans, lifting his glasses with a hand and rubbing at his eyes with the other. “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

Stan doesn’t so much as smile, just looks at Richie with a stern expression that Richie has always been useless against. He sits next to Stan’s legs and smooths down a crease in the sheets by Stan’s calves. 

“Did you-,” Richie begins, clears his throat and tries again, “Did you see anything while you were... weren’t... you know...?”

Stan purses his lips and looks away, pensive. “I did,” he replies with a small nod, “I saw Patty. I saw what it did to her, what _I_ did to her.” He seems to consider it before he asks, “What about you?”

“I, um, yeah,” Richie says lamely. “I saw Eddie the first time,” he continues under Stan’s expectant look, “I kept dreaming about him in this weird white space. He wasn’t alive, but he wasn’t dead either and I could hold him, I could touch him and see him breathe but he wasn’t breathing.” The words come out of him before he can really think about speaking them and he knows he’s said a lot more than what they sound like, can feel the embarrassment prickle on his cheeks at the admission. “And then I...” he trails off.

Stan still doesn’t say anything, giving Richie the space to keep talking, so he does. “I kind of just, followed him around when I was dead. I didn’t- I wasn’t- it wasn’t great,” he laughs humorlessly.

He looks up at Stan and Stan is already looking back, his eyes intense and attentive. Richie feels a little like he’s being watched through a microscope, but he doesn’t regret trusting Stan with it. That doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable though.

Stan finally looks away and sighs. “You got really lucky,” he says, then continues, “If the turtle had been anything like It, it wouldn’t have let you go back a second time.”

Richie considers it for a moment. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but maybe that’s what the turtle wanted the entire time. He absently imagines Maturin talking to itself about that dumbass Tozier boy who couldn’t even get it right on the first try, who botched it so unbelievably bad the first time he was given the chance to change the course of fate, or whatever. Was he supposed to save Eddie and himself both right from the beginning? Or did the turtle give him another shot because it saw how deeply fucked up not being able to be with Eddie again made him? 

“I really was, huh,” he agrees and looks up. “I’m sorry, Stan. I really, really am. I should have thought about what it might have meant for you before I took that decision.”

"You know it's not just about that, Richie.” Stan shakes his head and Richie can see the disappointment on his face without even having to try. In a second he feels all of ten years old, getting scolded by the same Stan, only ten years old then too, and with a stare much weightier and more guilt-inducing than any disappointed parent’s. “It's about you too,” he continues, “did you think we wouldn't care that you died? That we'd care less than Eddie dying?" 

"It's not like that," Richie shakes his head and averts his eyes. Despite his words, the truth is that he hadn't really considered that either. Maybe a small part of him did think that Eddie was more important, but it hadn't popped up in his head in so many words, it had been more of a background thought that seems obvious enough you don't even take the time of day to consider it. "I knew you would be upset," he explains, "I saw it, but I knew you would get over it eventually."

That makes Stan’s stare go from disappointed to sad. He looks at Richie with something like pity that makes Richie burn with shame.

Stan seems to consider his words very carefully before he speaks again. “Isn’t that what the turtle was trying to tell us though?” he asks, “That I’m not a liability, that you’re not unimportant to the point of having to disappear. Maybe your feelings matter Richie, maybe you and Eddie both matter and you just need to have the guts to believe it.”

Richie doesn’t answer, just looks at his hands in his lap and doesn’t meet Stan’s heavy eyes. He swallows once, then again, but the knot in his throat won’t go down and the words just won’t come up. He only looks up when he hears the sound of rustling sheets and feels Stan’s gentle hand on his shoulder. 

"I love him, Stan," Richie's voice trembles when he says it, "I think I've loved him since before I knew what it meant and it's killing me." 

"Have you told him?" Stan asks, but doesn't seem to need Richie's words to know the answer. 

Richie shakes his head. "I can't," he says, " _I won't_. We just found each other again, I can't risk it." 

"I think you're wrong, Rich," Stan disagrees, squeezing his arm and speaking decisively, "I think you would be surprised."

Richie searches Stan's eyes, trying to understand what it is he sees, what makes him so sure and Stan doesn’t say more, just meets Richie’s gaze with his kind, understanding one and a small sad smile. Richie looks back and thinks only, _How did I survive twenty-seven years without you_.

No more than a half-hour passes before the others finally get to the hospital. Eddie is back from his phone call by then and the others look just as frazzled by their night of drinking as Richie.

Just as Stan predicted, Bill makes a big fuss about Eddie coming out to Stan before him. “You were _MY_ f-friend first!” he shouts, pointing at Eddie and exaggerating his outrage. It makes Eddie laugh and the remaining tension in his shoulders dissipate entirely and Richie indulges his own need to touch him and grabs him in a headlock to muss up his hair until Eddie almost knees him in the groin. 

Despite his annoyance at Richie acting like he “never grew out of puberty, you dick,” Eddie’s smile doesn’t dim and Richie can’t stop thinking about Stan’s words.

He wonders, still or maybe again, why Maturin decided to help them. He knows, though, that in the end, it’s a question he’ll have to answer himself. The turtle was never forthcoming when Richie questioned it, and now that it is gone entirely, Richie has to assume that he has all the answers. But maybe that, too, is only a lie that helps make things easier. Either way, if there is someone as close to omniscient as one can get without being a god, that person is Stan.

What he said lodged itself in Richie deep enough that he finds himself distracted through most of the day they spend at the hospital. He knows the others notice too because Eddie keeps shooting him weird looks, questioning stares whenever Richie misses an opening to make a crude joke or tease any of the others, but especially Eddie, about something they say.

But Richie’s throat keeps going choked up and his saliva hard to swallow, and everything he managed to keep hidden from Eddie during their talk the day before is jumping up on his tongue like bile and indigestion and Richie is so, so afraid of how little time he has before it comes spilling out of his mouth in shards of glass and leaves his throat as scratched up and bloody as it is inevitably going to make their relationship.

He nudges Eddie’s shoulder, elbows him gently with a throwaway smile whenever he receives one of those looks and it’s enough to keep the weirdness at bay, to brush it off and get sucked into their conversations for a while, and before Richie even notices the time pass, they’re getting ushered out of Stan’s hospital room and going back to the hotel with the promise to be back just as early the next day.

They all agree to forgo another night of drinking in favour of making themselves nuisances in Ben and Beverly’s room who got the biggest one by virtue of getting it as a couple, “and the fact that Ben is the Scrooge McDuck of architecture,” Richie makes sure to point out, “Get it? Because he’s swimming in gold.” 

As unnoticeable as it was while there, the hospital smell sticks to them and their clothes enough that they also agree to reconvene after a shower, and Richie is left to contemplate his slowly healing wound in front of the bathroom mirror, bandage soggy from the steam and long past sticky in his hands.

He debates to himself how likely it would be to put it back on his own, a feat already quite unachievable as it is, but made impossible by the fact that Richie has none of the supplies needed even if he could somehow dislocate his arm joints and reach around to his back to restick the bandage.

He knows who does, though.

He looks to the bathroom ceiling with a sigh, readjusts the glasses on his nose, and throws a towel over his shoulders before grabbing a clean shirt and making his way out of the ensuite and the hotel room with a sense of foreboding and a small prayer that he won’t meet anybody while he crosses the small distance to Eddie’s room without a shirt on.

“Yes?” Eddie calls from the other side of the door when Richie knocks.

“Room service,” Richie answers, making his voice nasal and standing to attention at the smallest hint of a door opening along the corridor

Eddie opens his door with a deep frown on his face and looks up and down Richie’s naked torso with confusion. Richie feels himself heat up under the attention and uselessly pulls the towel around his shoulders tighter to try and cover more of his skin.

“The bandage came off,” he explains, and opens his mouth to say more, but then closes it again without another word.

Eddie’s frown gets impossibly deeper before he steps aside and opens the door for Richie to get in. The door clicks shut behind him and Richie follows him wordlessly into the bathroom.

“You shouldn’t have gotten it wet while showering,” Eddie admonishes while pulling out what he needs from the familiar toiletry bag.

“I didn’t!” Richie protests and sits down on the edge of the tub. “I _didn’t_ ,” he repeats when Eddie shoots him an incredulous look above his shoulder from his place at the sink, “The tape came off because of the steam, but I didn’t get it wet.”

Eddie clicks his tongue and steps behind Richie, pushing gently at his shoulders so he can have easier access when he starts rubbing at Richie’s skin with a wet cloth.

His hands are as careful and gentle as ever and his fingertips brush lightly against Richie’s back atop the cloth, making him suppress the shivers they raise on his arms. Eddie hums without noticing and keeps at his ministrations without saying a word. He discards the wet towel in the bathtub next to them and breaks contact while he gets some of the cicatrizant cream he’s been using on Richie since the stitches were put in.

Richie swallows hard and coughs a little when Eddie starts massaging around the wound and Eddie lets up a bit, making his touch lighter.

“Sorry,” he mumbles distractedly, but doesn’t stop.

Richie shakes his head. “It’s okay, you didn’t hurt me,” he reassures Eddie and turns slightly to make eye contact over his shoulder, unsuccessfully. “Thanks for doing this, Eds.”

Eddie brushes a thumb against his right shoulder blade. “Don’t mention it,” he breathes out. Richie can feel it against the skin of his neck, hot like a brand dipped in fire.

He loses himself under Eddie’s hands, his body going slack and pliant, and counts the beats of his heart in time with the sound of Eddie’s breaths, the puffs of air a warm caress on Richie’s clean and lax shoulders. He closes his eyes and listens carefully, so much that he can hear the scuffling of Eddie’s feet on the linoleum floor as he works and the maddening _pling-pling-pling_ of the water dripping rhythmically from the sink faucet.

He reopens them when Eddie steps back and breaks contact, going to the sink to retrieve a piece of clean gauze and the medical tape to secure it, and watches his shoulders move under the fabric of his minty polo. 

They make eye-contact for just a second when Eddie turns around and it makes Richie go hot in the cheeks, the small distracted smile on Eddie’s face feeling like an arrow to the heart. Then Eddie stands behind Richie again and Richie lets out a small sigh and closes his eyes again, feeling a strange weight return to his shoulders.

“When did you know?” he asks in a small voice, before he’s even decided to.

“Not for long,” Eddie says, his tone is steady, but his words are vague. “I think… Maybe I knew before, maybe I forgot.”

 _What made you remember?_ Richie wants to ask so badly, but he doesn’t. He can tell that Eddie isn’t saying everything and he’s not sure he wants the truth, doesn’t know if either of them is ready for it. He nods instead and wishes he could turn around, search for the answer on Eddie’s face so he doesn’t have to make himself vulnerable, to show the need to know by speaking the words. But Eddie’s hands are a firm weight on his skin as he applies the tape, and Richie feels fixed to the spot.

"Why did you come to L.A. with me?" Richie asks after a few seconds of silence. His voice is sombre and low, and an old curiosity he thought he’d left in Derry itches across his palms and tongue. "Why didn't you go back to your life in New York?" He realises he can't wait for Eddie to be ready anymore, he can't keep this hope up senselessly and not get anything back. As much as he tried to let go of his feelings for him, as much as he lied about actually having accomplished the task of smothering them and setting them on fire, Eddie has been there the entire time, and nothing worked to kill that love that survived through three decades of forgetfulness. 

Eddie pauses, straightening up and away for a moment. When Richie looks at him above his shoulder, he sees him close his eyes painfully and frown, his breath going shaky out of his tense lips. But then Eddie opens his eye and touches Richie again, tearing one last piece of tape and pressing it against the bandage and his back. "I couldn't, Rich," he replies only, "I couldn't." 

"Why?" Richie prods him, and Eddie finally meets his gaze.

He steps back, reaches his hand to the sink and lets the roll of tape fall from his hand into the basin. Then he sits down next to Richie on the edge of the tub and brushes a hand across his face with a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

"After the car accident, I ended up in the hospital," Eddie begins, "I wasn't hurt, but I just crashed my car and I was terrified. I didn't even know why, but as soon as Mike called me I had this feeling that I should be running away, that there was something huge and horrifying that I just couldn't put a finger on," he explains, "I was panicked and overwhelmed and so I let them take me to a hospital to check that nothing was damaged." 

Richie doesn't respond, has no idea why Eddie is telling him this. He keeps sitting there with his elbows on his knees, afraid to even brush against him, and waits for Eddie to continue, to gather his courage and look at Richie's face, but he doesn't. 

Eddie's eyes keep flitting around them to the dusty mirror, the empty armchair just beyond the bathroom door, the elegant bronze faucet that keeps dripping slowly into the sink without taking in any of their surroundings, too engrossed in his memories. "I couldn’t even wait to get home before I called a lawyer," he continues, "I was still sitting in the waiting area of the hospital and I couldn't wait, I had to do it right then before I got scared again, but then I didn’t."

Richie opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn't know what to say. 

"I had the number on my phone because I'd been thinking about it for years," Eddie speaks again, "There was always a small part of me that knew that couldn't possibly be it, that I wasn't happy, that there was something wrong with me for staying with Myra just because she was the safest choice. But I had no idea what something better would feel like, because I'd forgotten." He shrugs and smiles slightly, it's a pitiful thing on his lips, and in his eyes there's only bitterness.

Silence falls between them and Eddie closes his eyes again, his right hand instinctively going to his left, fiddling with the naked skin of the finger where the ring isn't anymore. Richie follows the movement and swallows hard, his palms are sweating where they're now pressed against the fabric of his pants and his lips sting from how hard he's been biting them. 

"You were one of the first things I remembered from before," _before we left Derry_ , "and it was almost enough to finally make the fucking call." Eddie rubs a hand over his eyes and mutters, sighing deeply, "God, that's so fucking cheesy. I'm such a fucking coward, Rich," he berates himself, "I couldn't even get out of a shitty marriage by myself. I almost got you fucking killed," he says shakily, his voice going high and almost manic as he suddenly seems to remember Stanley's spidery head crawling over Richie.

Richie wants to reach out, put his hand over Eddie’s and stop their fidgeting, but he doesn’t. He tightens his grip on his knee instead and keeps watching the side of Eddie’s face.

“I’d already told Myra I was getting a divorce when I went to L.A. with you,” Eddie speaks again and finally meets Richie’s eyes with steely, dark ones. “You didn't even ask me how long I was going to stay. Why didn't you ask, Richie?” 

Richie looks away and shakes his head, pushing his glasses to his forehead and squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I didn't wanna know,” he replies quietly, “I wanted to pretend you were there for me and not just because of some kind of mid-life crisis or whatever, and that you were gonna stay.”

He fixes back his glasses and looks straight into Eddie’s face, trying to suppress to urge to flinch away under his eyes. "You weren't the coward, Eddie," he states, trying to drive the point home, "that's the problem. You saved my fucking life and it was my fault that you died back there, I was the coward. And I couldn't fucking live with it.” Eddie’s eyes flit between his before he takes a shaky breath and continues, “I went a week without you and I regretted every single second I didn't have the balls to tell you how fucking much I've loved you since we were thirteen and when I actually got the chance, when even a fucking god turtle confirmed that that is what I should have done, even then I still didn't have the guts to do it because I'd rather live an entire life never knowing if you'd reject me than have enough balls to come clean and maybe get to be happy. I'm the coward, I've always been the coward."

Eddie gapes at him, eyes wide and astonished. He lifts a hand in the air and Richie waits for it to grip at him, but then it stays there, unmoving, like Eddie forgot what he was about to do with it.

“Richie...” he pleads, and lets it fall weightlessly between his knees

"I love you, Eddie," Richie says before Eddie can continue and tries to not make it hurt, because he's not that kid anymore and he doesn't deserve to be ashamed. It took dying twice to know that his love matters, enough to tilt the universe right, and as painfully as it burns in his chest, he will do his best to mend it so that Eddie only gets the best parts. "I'm in love with you. I've been for so long that I don't remember what it feels like not to."

“You dumbass,” Eddie says and it shocks Richie out of his intensity. He wants to argue but then Eddie speaks again. “I know what I wanted to say,” he says, and Richie has no idea what he means. “Even though I didn’t die,” he adds, “there’s only one thing I would regret bringing with me and never saying.”

Richie holds his breath and doesn’t speak.

“I don't think I wanna wait anymore, Rich," Eddie speaks again, a small smile on his lips. The mildness of his words is betrayed by the desperate voice they come out on. "I can't," he insists, "It's so unfair, it's been unfair to both of us for so long and I'm fucking done-" his voice shakes and cracks "-wasting time by being scared. It’s so fucking stupid," he adds, and it makes Richie snort, "we’ll get the fuck over it, Richie, we have no reason to be scared anymore. We never did. We never had any reason to be scared of each other."

He lunges himself at Richie, so hard that it almost tips them both into the bathtub, grips at Richie’s cheeks and leans his forehead against his. Richie lets himself reach back. He touches the side of Eddie's face with shaky fingertips, brushing back his curls that are already perfectly in place and remembering how many times he'd wanted to do it as a kid, to just reach out and feel the neat, short curls at the back of his neck that drove him crazy, that still do, and always stopping himself when his fingers would twitch for it. It had been a little too honest a touch back then, a bit too obvious and vulnerable even for the amount of physical contact they used to share so easily, and so he wouldn't. He would pinch Eddie's soft cheeks instead, put on a saccharine voice and call him cute, he would tousle his hair while keeping him in place with an arm slung loosely around his neck that Eddie could have easily disentangled himself from but never did quite try hard enough to.

But he’s not ashamed now, he’s not afraid and he doesn’t have to hold back.

Eddie whispers “I love you, I love you, I love you,” over and over against his lips and they kiss once, twice, a thousand times and more and it doesn’t feel enough. Richie doesn’t think it will ever be enough.

They laugh into each other’s mouths, their tongues sliding together wetly, their lips pecking lightly and innocently, heat coming and going between their mouths and fingers and it feels like everything they’ve ever wanted to do and a million new things they know they’ll have the time to try at the same time.

It’s so hard to let go, the most difficult thing that Richie’s ever done, even more difficult than _that_ , but the heat from his shower is dissipating and leaving goosebumps all over his naked shoulders and the others are waiting for them in Ben and Beverly’s room.

He leaves another featherlight kiss on Eddie’s lips and pulls back, prompting a disappointed whine out of Eddie. Richie laughs and brushes his thumb on Eddie’s cheek where he’s been holding him and Eddie smiles back, a besotted look in his eyes, so sweet and brown.

“We should probably get going,” he says and Eddie sighs a little and then nods.

“Yeah,” he agrees and pulls back, letting his hands fall from Richie’s neck and hoisting himself on his feet.

Richie pulls on the shirt he brought with him and follows Eddie out of the bathroom and into his room as he gathers his keys and out of the door when he’s ready to go.

They walk through the corridor shoulder to shoulder, the back of their hands brushing against each other with every step but not quite touching, and Richie knows that the smiles on their faces must be giddy and stupid but he doesn’t care.

When they get to the elevator, Eddie pulls away and presses the call button. Richie looks at his back with a smile and a memory he had long forgotten hits him clear as day. 

An almost seventeen Richie holds Eddie snug against his chest, squeezes his arms around his shoulders tight enough that he knows it must hurt and buries his face in Eddie's soft hair that always smells of vanilla. 

They haven't said a single word in what feels like an eternity, and Eddie seems just as reluctant to let Richie go if the hold he has around Richie's waist is anything to go by. 

Richie cries, silently sobs into the boy underneath him and wishes he could keep him there forever, could plant roots into the ground of Eddie's yard and tangle together in a mess of branches until the summer pulls flowers out of their intertwined bodies like Richie has always suspected they were supposed to.

Eddie shakes against his chest, a sob bubbling out of his mouth and into Richie's neck, and Richie doesn't know now, but he will, that Eddie always wished at that moment he'd had the courage Richie promised him just to say “I love you.”

They'll have to separate eventually, and Richie will have to watch Eddie go as he drives away and keeps straining to turn around in the seat of his car and never let Richie out of his sight, like if he looks for long enough their destinies will change. 

And neither of them knows that they'll forget each other for a long time, and neither of them knows that they'll never let the other go when they find each other again. 

In the present, the elevator pings and the doors slide open. And his Eddie, the one he knows now and has never stopped loving, looks over his shoulder to Richie. "Are you coming, Rich?" he calls impatiently. 

Richie steps next to him and slides his hand against Eddie's, letting their fingers knot together as they hop inside. Eddie looks at him with surprise in his eyes before his face softens and his mouth twists into a shy grin. Richie's smile tastes sweet on his lips and warm in his chest.

_**THE END** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you for reading this far. I have never in my life managed to finish writing a multi-chapter fic (I am deeply ashamed in case you're wondering) and especially never something so long. This might be presumptuous of me to say, but I am very proud of what this ended up being despite the fact that I know that my writing is shaky at best and downright rambly at worst. 
> 
> This fic would have never, ever happened if it wasn't for fandom in its entirety and other fanfiction writers specifically. It has been such a huge inspiration for me to read what other people wrote about these two idiots in love up there, and to share the sheer enthusiasm of having the same drive to just write regardless of the time it takes and how free it is for everyone to read. In a world where we are expected to produce for profit and our worth is measured on that, loving something as hard as fandom makes you love it is a rare and wonderful sacrifice and the more others did it, the easier it was for me to get swept up in it. 
> 
> Secondly, I know my explanation of how Stan survived is a bit wishy-washy but I'll be completely honest: it doesn't much matter to me as long as I get to bring him back too. I've been reading so much fix-it that by now Eddie's death seems like some weird headcanon from days gone by, but not enough people bring back Stan and I could never have written a fix-it where he didn't get the hint of a happy ending too. 
> 
> Lastly, this fanfiction has a playlist that I listened to pretty constantly while writing and that is also kind of a group effort as it is mostly comprised of songs I only found out about because they were mentioned in or lent themselves as titles to other Reddie fanfictions (plus some Sp*tify recommendations that fit the narrative). If anyone is interested in it, let me know and I'll make sure to add a link to it either here or over on my tumblr ([under the same name](https://mushiemadarame.tumblr.com)! come find me!!). 
> 
> Thank you again, thank you for reading, thank you for being patient through the fic and thank you for loving these characters' story as much as - and probably even more than - I do. 
> 
> I know I've already said enough, but please bear with me for another second while I mention two people who were essential to the complexion of this story.
> 
> Firstly, the amazing [mischiefmanager](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischiefmanager) who helped in hashing out the details of the little I described of Los Angeles and who inspired and fueled my obsession with her own fanfictions.
> 
> And a special, final, thank you to the one person that has kept me sane and has be so, so patient throughout the entire writing process (even when I texted them in a manic stupor at 3AM in the morning that I’d finally decided how to end the fic!) and has been so kind as to read along as this rambling mess became the story it is now. Stellaria, you’re the greatest friend a gal could ask for, and your presence has been truly invaluable to me during these last few months, there aren’t enough ways to thank you for being there.
> 
> Oh, and one last thing! As you might have noticed, this story is part of a collection. The reason for that is that it _might_ get an epilogue which hasn't been written yet. I can't make any definite promises right now, although I do have some of it down already, but please do subscribe to the collection in case it ends up being posted!
> 
>  **EDIT** : I've been asked to post a link to the playlist I mentioned, so [here it is](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2jE4h3rvza2BgAFizEv1Wi?si=fgBOfZeeQM-JWODMyBXRBQ)!


End file.
